Parallel Lines
by itzaboo
Summary: Begins after Season 6, "The Tyrant" Some S6 Spoilers . Focuses on House: Hameron, Huddy, friendship with Wilson. Most chapters rated "T" but some will be "M" later.
1. Chapter 1

This is my very first fan fiction ever so please be gentle. Posted first on the Fox [H]ouse website but I have received some requests to post here as well and therefore, am doing so. Also, this story begins after the season 6 episode, "The Tyrant" but hopefully I have explained enough so most folks, even the season 6 uninitiated, may follow along.

The music quotes I use at the top of chapters are the lyrics that correspond to the theme or to a particular character's emotion within that chapter. Please note that I have provided the appropriate lyrics (sometimes the entire song, though not posted, is valid or connected to the chapter), song title and the artist whose rendition I appreciated most, not necessarily the songwriter.

The majority of chapters can be categorized under the "T" rating but several will rate "M." I will post that rating at the top of the said chapters.

Please read and post your reviews. Hope you enjoy. Thank you.

**Parallel Lines**

**1 – "So what he was may have been beautiful, but the pain is right now and right here" – "Operation Spirit (The Tyranny of Tradition)" – Live**

What was that noise? God almighty, it was annoying! The desperate nature of it was making it completely impossible to cling to sleep. So he rolled over onto his back and gave it up. It was then he realized that the sound was coming from between his own lips, starting deep in his chest and rising into his throat as a low, animalistic groan.

Dr. Gregory House opened his vivid blue eyes but quickly shut them again, squeezing tight against the pain. The scar on his right thigh felt scraped and hollowed out, with smoldering ashes packed inside the wound for good measure.

He groaned again before he could stop himself and reached an arm towards the night table. His long fingers grasped the bottle of pills and shook it, listening for the sound of multiple tablets. He kept his eyes shut, not wishing to count the pills, and pressed the now open bottle to his dry lips. He downed the remainder and waited, lying on his back, for the drug to take effect.

How long the pain had been getting worse, he could no longer say for sure. It was as if any step forward toward less pain was immediately followed by five steps backward.

He opened his eyes again. _Where had he left that damned cane?_ He vaguely remembered having left it by the piano, limping into the bedroom under his own steam when the bourbon he was drinking the night before had finally prevailed over the insomnia.

He longed for the oblivion that Vicodin had given him but feared, just as strongly, the madness it had also engendered. Everything in his life seemed just a temporary fix for the pain, both physical and mental. But returning to diagnostic medicine was his best shot. His best shot to keep his brilliant mind occupied and thereby his excruciating pain under control.

He sat up and swung both legs over the side of the bed, not in one smooth motion but in several jerking ones. The wood floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he gingerly raised up, balancing his full weight onto his left leg. He stumbled and almost fell the first time he used his right to support himself midstride but several steps beyond, he achieved a swinging, faltering lope down the hall.

It had been more than two weeks since he had moved out of his friend, James Wilson's apartment, and back into his own. He hadn't been completely by himself in months and the solitude, like the Vicodin had been, was both a blessing and a curse. He was free again, to do as he wished, whenever he wished. If he wanted to play his piano at two o'clock in the morning or turn up the amp on his guitar before sunrise, he could do it. But he was also alone. And in the long hours of the night when his insomnia plagued him, he would feel powerless in the grip of an ache and a longing within that had nothing whatsoever to do with his damaged leg.

Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had become his refuge then. Like a lighthouse to a ship struggling in a storm-tossed sea, the hospital and diagnostic medicine had become a beacon, helping him to stay off Vicodin and giving him a reason for getting up in the morning. And it broke up the monotony of the fearful loneliness of his life.

There were people who cared for him at PPTH, cared for him and who he cared for as well, although sometimes it seemed that he would rather endure a lifetime of pain than to ever admit it out loud. Of course there was always Wilson. Wilson who would still answer the door or pick up the phone in the middle of the night knowing full well, probably just by the knock or the desperate sound of the ringing, that it was House. Wilson, who with his understanding nature and soulful brown eyes would, time and again, be there for House, to support, to argue when necessary and always, to forgive.

And there were his team and his former team members. House would always have an adversarial relationship with Eric Foreman, due more to their similarities than their differences. But in between the verbal and professional sparring, both doctors would grudgingly acquiesce to a great deal of mutual respect, even admiration. Chris Taub and Remy Hadley, or as House always referred to her, "Thirteen," were not currently on his team, having left PPTH while House was thought to be leaving the hospital for good. But House felt certain that he could regain them within his sphere of influence to once again challenge each other while reaping the benefits that only House's tutelage could give them.

In more distant circumnavigation, there were Robert Chase, surgeon, and Alison Cameron, head of Emergency medicine. Chase and Cameron had been brought back to work with Foreman when Taub and Thirteen had left and now House was enjoying the dynamic interplay that he had missed having once again regained them within a closer orbit. Chase had begun looking up to House as a kind of father figure since, well even before, his own father had died. And Alison Cameron . . . well Cameron would always be Cameron. Wide-eyed and innocent, like when he first hired her, one minute, strident and self-righteous the next. Certainly never boring, probably the most important criteria for people remaining in his life.

Too, there remained between House and Cameron an unspoken contract. Even though she was recently married to Chase, there still remained for her, the never altered, now quite buried feelings similar to a schoolgirl crush. Or perhaps, that was simply denigrating her true emotions. For her exceptional ability lay in the fact that she recognized in House a damaged but remarkable soul, a wounded genius whom she longed to fortify and to heal. And for him, the wish to reciprocate those feelings only mastered through his stronger need to protect her, even from himself.

And there was Lisa Cuddy, his resented boss and yet, cherished friend. It was she that realized exactly what he needed those first terrifying moments of his final breakdown. She had brought him to Wilson. House's saving grace was that Cuddy only knew part of the story. Cuddy had surmised that during his downward spiral, House had hallucinated a night of passion with her. But he would never admit and had absolutely forbidden Wilson to give Cuddy any further details. Details like that when he was pushed to make a choice, he had chosen to give up everything, to make the drastic changes and sacrifices necessary, if only to be with her.

House limped into the bathroom and was shocked by his reflection. When had he gotten so old? At times he still expected to see the teenager that he once was looking back at him. But his days of lacrosse and beer parties and unhooking a girl's bra on her parents' sofa were a lifetime ago. Well, maybe just the lacrosse.

Although he hadn't played the sport in many years, he still retained the build of a midfielder; tall and lanky with lean musculature running tautly through his arms, legs and upper torso, partially hidden by a small amount of extra middle-aged weight. He passed his hand over his two-day beard, deciding to go ahead and make it an even three-day stubble. House had not yet decided whether to grow out his hair. It remained close-cropped as he had worn it in Mayfield Psychiatric hospital. Once chestnut, almost auburn in the sun, the base color was now a deep saddle with copious amounts of grey and thinning in spots. He stared into the mirror and the well-lined face, with its high cheekbones, straight-nose, and cobalt-blue eyes stared back. And then, for no particular reason, the stranger in the mirror gave House an impish, crooked grin. He bent down to turn on the tub's faucet and as the steam from the showerhead rose, it obliterated the stranger from House's sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**2 – "Is there something been bothering you? I wish you'd give me a little clue. Is there something you wanna say? Just tell me that you're okay." – "Are You Alright?" – Lucinda Williams**

Alison Cameron awoke early that morning. She had been waking up early every day for several weeks and always to the same sight. Chase's side of the bed was not only empty, but it had not been slept in. Rubbing her blue-grey eyes that were swollen and bleary from crying herself to sleep the night before, she sat up and placed her feet in the slippers by the bed.

As she slowly shuffled her way to the kitchen to make herself a strong cup of coffee, the unmistakable sound of the front door latch being unlocked assailed her ears. She could tell by the repeated scrapings and the muffled swearing that Chase was three sheets to the wind and desperately, but ineffectually, attempting to sneak into the apartment.

Chase finally succeeded opening the door a crack and hesitantly stuck his head inside the doorframe. As he looked up through his dark blonde forelock, his gaze met his wife's puffy-eyed stare. Realizing the jig was up, he stumbled into the room, weaving as he turned to close the door behind him.

"I won't ask you where you've been or what you've been doing," Cameron said. "I just want to know that you're okay."

Chase turned to look at her a long moment before answering. "I'm okay."

Cameron nodded and headed her footsteps toward the kitchen once more.

She heard Chase bouncing of the walls, following her. "Don't you want to ask me where I've been?" His slurred Aussie accent reverberated down the hall as Cameron took coffee and a mug from the kitchen cabinet.

"I can see for myself that you've been drinking. More importantly, I want to know why. Why you don't think you can trust me? Why you can't trust your own wife? Why you're willing to risk . . ." Cameron choked down a sob.

Chase turned the corner and stumbled forward into the kitchen, arms outstretched in a gesture that was part comforting, part pleading. Cameron turned away from him.

"I just don't know how much more of this I can take," she said quietly. "For weeks you've been shutting me out. Ever since . . ." Cameron looked over her shoulder but refused to meet Chase's bloodshot blue eyes.

The wall of silence and despair had been steadily growing in both height and width between the two newlyweds. How things had changed between them so radically in just a matter of weeks confounded every effort of understanding on Cameron's part. And there was a stillness deep inside her, a knowing, that very soon a channel would be reached. Whether the tide of hopelessness would recede and lay Chase and Cameron on the same shore or whether it would become a veritable inland sea and part them forever was yet to be decided.

For his part, Chase could feel the inevitable pressing in upon him as well. But he felt so beyond the possibility of redemption that he couldn't rescue himself. He didn't deserve to be rescued. He was a doctor and he had chosen to provide false test results on a patient so that the treatment would provide the means for that patient's death. Beyond the reasoning that the patient, Dibala, was a dictator and genocidal murderer, Chase had coldly decided to pass judgment and murder the murderer. And the consequences of that decision were tearing him up inside.

How could he possibly share the details of his guilty deed with his wife? Alison had always taken the moral high ground on every question. She was beyond reproach. She would never forgive him. And without her absolution, how would he ever be able to face her or himself again? Unknowingly, he had placed himself in a Catch22 at the same time he had placed his wife on a pedestal. And now, his former actions and his current inability to act had reached a tipping point. He needed to suffer for his sins. And he needed to punish his wife for the clemency that he couldn't ask for, much less accept.

"You saw your own mother drink herself into an early grave," Cameron said. "Is that what you're trying to do to yourself? Do you want me to stand here and watch you destroy yourself as you did with her?"

The quiet truth of Cameron's question shocked him back to the here and now. "No," he said softly.

"Then what do you . . .?"

"What I want," said Chase, "Is for you to save yourself."

At his words, a look of complete anguish crossed his wife's face. It was too much for him to bear. So Chase turned and walked back down the hall and out into the cool morning air, closing the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**3 – "The way you're naggin' never gonna stop. You always seem to be a blowin' your top. One of these days I'm gonna lose my mind**.**" – "Nag" – Joan Jett**

Five minutes after closing his front door, House was shifting gears heading west on Elm, the motorcycle's engine creating a purring vibration between his knees. House half-smiled as he thrust his hips forward and to the left, leaning the bike in a turn to swerve around a slow-moving SUV. He felt a kinship with the bike, no longer showroom pristine. It had plenty of scrapes from being dropped several times and there was a large dent in the gas tank from that accident in Middletown. But the damage didn't affect the bike's speed, its responsiveness, its inherent beauty.

Although it was still only early fall, the trees had already turned into a veritable riot of color. The bronze light of morning reflecting off the orange, crimson and amber leaves had an almost blinding affect on House as he rotated his helmet left and right, weaving expertly between the other vehicles on the road.

He turned the bike into the parking lot and pulled into his designated handicapped space. He stashed the helmet with the bike and pulled out his cane from its usual shotgun position. Now if he could just steer clear of Cuddy long enough to conveniently avoid the majority of his clinic hours.

"Dr. House, you are already over an hour late for clinic duty. You can start with exam room two." Lisa Cuddy stood just inside the double doors as he limped in. Maybe the cameras in the parking lot were connected directly to a high-def in her office, enabling her to pounce on him as soon as he stepped across the threshold.

As she spoke, Cuddy brushed her ravens-wing bangs aside, turning slightly to the right. The position angled her body perfectly to the morning sun streaming in through the windows and glass front doors.

"Dr. Cuddy, you are over a fashion year late to be wearing a leopard print bra. Weren't you aware that giraffe is currently the mammal pattern in vogue?" House picked up the first folder and began perusing its staid contents.

She turned her face to look up at him and he was suddenly struck by the way the sun cast red highlights in her hair and warmed her skin with golden tones. "Well I tend to favor fluidly moving, felines," she said. She took a step closer and her perfume washed over him, making him feel slightly dizzy. Maybe he _had_ had too much Maker's Mark the night before. "And I tend to avoid tall, gangly ones."

House straightened slightly. He turned his face to the side and peered at Cuddy from the corners of his eyes while he secretly suppressed a smile. To him, there was no better way to start the day than engaging in a little verbal thrust and parry with his favorite adversary. "And the low cut, zebra blouse you wore yesterday?" he said. "I assume that logic means that that wasn't the first time you had an ass galloping across your chest?"

"I had no idea you were such a fashion maven, House," she said, chuckling lightly. She obviously enjoyed this verbal banter with her most worthy opponent as much as he did. "Or maybe I should call you Mr. Blackwell?"

"Not if you want to keep me from calling you Mrs. Ed. And that's also in reference to the fact that your ass is as large as that of any livestock animal." House turned to face her head on again. Snapping shut the case file and handing it back to her, he said, "Are we done here? Because I heard Cameron found me a really interesting case."

Cuddy smiled at his obvious fabrication. "Nice try," she said. "But Cameron won't be in until after lunch." She pushed the file folder back into his chest and said, "Exam room two."


	4. Chapter 4

**4 – "People let me tell you 'bout my best friend" – "Best Friend" – Harry Nilsson**

Two cases of strep, three STDs and five overly-cautious parents with sniffling children later, House limped out of the clinic and stepped onto the elevator. The three cups of coffee had kept him awake through the crushing boredom of clinic duty but had done nothing to soften the now near deafening roar coming from his stomach. If Wilson wasn't in his office, then he could just take some money from the kitty Wilson had cleverly hidden in his filing cabinet under the folder labeled "Mrs. Ruble."

Wilson was just closing his office door as the elevator doors slid open. "Lunch?" House said when Wilson looked up.

"Cafeteria okay with you? I've got a committee meeting later," Wilson said as he tugged at the neck of his tie to loosen it.

House frowned. "Well I did have my heart set on more of a four course at 'Elements' but I'm sure our 'Top Chefs' downstairs can whip up something comparable."

"I was figuring more along the lines of 'Hell's Kitchen' but 'Top Chefs' could be magical too." Wilson gave House a slight, crooked smile. He knew House far too well to doubt that he would be paying for both lunches and be lucky if he got to eat even half of his own.

"So where's the team?" Wilson asked when they were seated opposite each other.

House reached over and took a French fry off of Wilson's plate, dipped it in Wilson's ketchup and put it in his mouth. "Their mission, should they accept it or not, is to scrounge up a decent case for me so I can get out of clinic duty. It doesn't even have to be a decent one. Indecent will do."

"And by definition, dirtier and more fun," said Wilson. He watched helplessly as one by one, his fries disappeared into House's mouth. "Do you have to do that?" It's not enough for you that you have your own tray of food?"

"Have you never read any Jack London novels? The lead sled dog always eats the other dogs' food first. It's the law of the wilderness, the Call of the Wild." House lifted his head and let loose a wolf howl.

Wilson scrunched his straight nose and spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Well he won't get my lead dog," he said in a more than passable impression of W.C. Fields.

"Why not?"

"Cause I 'et' him. He was mighty good with mustard."

House gave Wilson a brief smile. Then he stretched across the table again and took Wilson's ice cream sandwich.

Wilson sighed. "I suppose I should just resign myself to it. Nothing I say or do will ever get you to stop stealing my food."

"Resistance is futile," House said.

"I guess I should be glad that you've not taken the metaphor to the next level where you mark your territory by peeing on my belongings."

"I HAVE always admired your desk."

Wilson was considering his retort when he noticed Cameron walking in with her food tray. "Well White Fang, Cameron just walked in. Why don't you ask her if she's found a case for you before she sits down with Chase?"

"Yeah, but if I wait until _after_ she sits down with Chase, I might get to hear something personal, or gross, or both. So where's the fun . . .?" House stopped talking and Wilson looked up to follow his friend's gaze. Cameron was moving to the opposite end of the dining area from where Chase was currently sitting.

House and Wilson weren't the only ones who noticed. Chase saw the direction his wife moved and rose to leave.

"Oh, oh, trouble in paradise," said House. "First, Chase is on time today and Cameron doesn't come in 'til later. And now she's not even going to sit with hubby number deux."

"House, do NOT go over there. You need her. When she's back full time in the ER, you'll need her cases." Wilson was at this point, talking to House's retreating back.


	5. Chapter 5

**5 – "How long can a girl be tortured by you? How long before my dignity is reclaimed? And how long can a girl be haunted by you?" – "Flinch" – Alanis Morissette **

There was no sneaking up on Cameron in the cafeteria. The aisles between chairs and tables were too narrow and House's limping stride, too long. Cameron grimaced as she saw him coming toward her. She knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to deal with his prying questions. She only wished she could have put the confrontation off for just a while longer.

"Dr. Cameron, I was just talking with Wilson about YOUR availability . . ." House took a slow deep breath. "I mean, THE availability . . . of cases of possible interest."

Cameron eyed him silently. Considering this was House, she was a little taken aback by the lack of vitriol in his opening statement. However, since this _was_ House, she remembered that he might have been using this as a feint before coming in with the verbal equivalent of a hard right cross.

"I might have found something," she said, "but you'll have to wait until after lunch."

"Okay, fine." At this, House pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. He leaned forward and positioned his elbow squarely on the table, placing his chin on his upturned palm.

In spite of herself, Cameron looked up at him. His expression was grave and his, God help her, clear blue eyes shown with a concern that she knew had to be false. She looked away again. She thought that by now, after all this time and all the crap she'd put up with from him, that her heart wouldn't still skip a beat when she looked in those eyes.

"Doesn't Wilson have any food left that you can steal?"

"How are you?"

The simplicity of his question caught her off guard. "Fine," she said looking up at him again. His steady gaze held the same expression.

"Finally told Chase that you're dumping him and you don't want to raise little wombats together?"

"It's none of your business House. Let it drop."

He squinted at her. "And how long have you known me?"

Cameron knew that this, of course, was the crux of the matter. House would remain dogged in his single-minded pursuit to find out anything and everything that was puzzling, personal, painful. If he eventually found out anyway, and she knew that he probably would, the one real choice left open to her was a question of when. Would it be better to rip off this particular bandage quickly?

His brilliant mind craved constant activity to the exclusion of all else, no matter the pain or the price of the quest. She regarded him sadly. How unfortunate that he seemed to be insensible to the pain that his actions caused himself, even more so than to anyone else.

House flinched almost imperceptibly at the look that crossed Cameron's fine features. Was it pity? The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he had gone too far . . . again. But the idea that she might now be feeling sorry for him_,_ made him resolute, and annoyed.

"Or is your insatiable need to fix everyone that's damaged completely misplaced on Chase? Daddy-abandoned-me-wound all healed up and nothing left but perfect hair, perfect teeth and an oh-so-sexy limey accent? Decided you're ready to put me back at the top of your DIY list?"

"I don't know why I should still be surprised," she said, rising to her feet, "because no matter what Chase does or doesn't do, in the asinine Olympics, YOU still win the gold medal."

"Comforting isn't it, that kind of streamlined consistency?" House watched Cameron's hips rhythmically swaying beneath her lab coat as she walked quickly away. He turned his head to see that Wilson had left his table as well. Knowing Wilson, he'd probably walked out as soon as House moved towards Cameron. Wilson rarely had the stomach to witness House's numerous torture sessions, even from a distance.

As he was deciding whether to find Chase and begin accosting him, Eric Foreman began making his way to where he sat. Judging from his self-satisfied expression, House guessed that an interesting case had finally been found.


	6. Chapter 6

**6 – "Working starts to make me wonder where fruits of what I do are goin'. He says in love and war all is fair, but he's got cards he ain't showin'" – "Sunshine" – Jonathan Edwards**

"All right Foreman, where'd you put the bodies?" House said as he seated himself in his office.

Foreman stood in front of House's desk, his lips pursed, waiting, House knew, for the other shoe to fall.

"What, no witty comeback today?"

"After all this time with you," Foreman said, "I can usually follow along. But this time, I'm gonna need subtitles."

"Where's Chase and Cameron?" House said.

Foreman noticed that House had not even opened the file folder he'd given him. Usually his boss's insatiable medical curiosity would not postpone itself for anything . . . unless that thing posed an even greater mystery to solve.

Foreman knew about Chase, about what he'd done. He also knew that House knew. It had been House who provided the information that covered their tracks in the Dibala case, for both Chase's action and Foreman's duplicity after the fact. House, seemingly out-of-character, had been the means for protecting, not just Foreman and Chase, but their careers as well.

But House often did things that seemed out-of-character for House. He certainly projected an image of insensitive, egomaniacal self-servitude. And yet, time and again, he demonstrated loyalty, altruism and yes, even caring that seemed to profess a different inner nature. Thus Foreman, after all the years he had worked with House, found his boss to be an enigma, the ultimate puzzle, even surpassing the medical puzzles they had, and would solve, together.

Foreman looked down at the desk in order to avoid House's laser-like gaze. He knew Chase and Cameron's marriage was in trouble. You didn't have to have any of House's special insight to see that. It was all too obvious in the newlyweds' body language and the way in which they rarely spoke to one another. Or that when they did speak, the coldness of their tone felt as if it would instantly freeze any standing water within a five-mile radius.

The increasing velocity of his working environment's disintegration was innately coupled with the newlyweds' crumbling relationship. The only thing that could possibly make matters worse would be the intrusive manipulations of House. And an even worse professional atmosphere was something that Foreman was not prepared to allow.

So Foreman, while feeling some sympathy toward his coworkers, was motivated now for purposes that were purely self-interest. His best hope was that House could be sidetracked for awhile; or at least, just long enough for Chase and Cameron to work out their problems on their own without any Housian interference.

"Maybe they're off grabbing a nooner," Foreman said, his bright, dark eyes tilting up to meet his boss's. "All those times we thought they were grabbing lunch and they were grabbing each other. Maybe they decided to take a lunchtime trip down memory lane."

"In all the years you've worked for me, haven't you learned anything? Since when did you become such a rotten liar?" House leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Look, they don't okay every move they make with me, nor should they," he said. Desperation drove him to try honesty. "Just leave it alone House. They're married. Give them a chance to work it out on their own."

"Yeah," House practically guffawed, "They've done a great job on their own so far." He arched an eyebrow at his employee. "There is no REAL case in this folder, is there Foreman? This was just a ploy to try and get me off Cameron and Chase for awhile, wasn't it?" House stood up and tossed the file into Foreman's chest. Foreman caught the folder but its contents scattered to the floor. He stooped to pick them up.

"Good thing you became a doctor," House said as he picked up his cane and limped out of the office, "because all racially-motivated athletic stereotypes aside, you can't catch for crap."


	7. Chapter 7

**7 – "I've done no harm, I keep to myself; There's nothing wrong with my state of mental health." – "Who Can It Be Now?" – Men at Work **

Wilson heard the familiar step-clunk outside of his office door. The thought occurred to him that he probably should have locked the door a moment before House came slamming through it. Wilson also knew, however, that a locked door, rather than being a permanent obstacle to House, was more akin to a temporary setback. He gloomily looked up from his paperwork, his left hand relaxing its grip on the pen.

House limped in and turned to close the door behind him. He made his way over to the couch and threw his long legs onto one side while his head hit the opposite armrest, with seemingly perfect timing, on the other. Wilson smiled in spite of himself. Even with his disability, House often displayed an almost acrobatic control over his entire body. Many times he'd witnessed House twirling his cane like a baton or juggling objects as well as any circus performer. Even with the pronounced limp, his friend still moved with the grace of a stalking leopard.

House looked up to see the ghost of a smile remaining on Wilson's lips. "What are you smiling about?" he asked. "Are you on SSRIs again?"

"Yeah, I stole some from your stash House. What do you want? I'm trying to do some work here if you haven't noticed."

"Chase and Cameron . . ." House began.

"Oh will you leave it alone?" Wilson said. "For godsakes, Cameron married Chase, not you."

House looked for a moment like Wilson had slapped his face. Then the mask fell again. "Why are you questioning my motives? The important thing here is that they're missing."

"What do you mean missing?" said Wilson, agitation becoming more pronounced in his voice. "Missing from the hospital? Missing from each other?"

"Nice to have you back in the game. Please advance your token to the next square. And knowing you, it would probably be that lame little Scottie dog."

Wilson sighed and looked back down at his paperwork. "Well they haven't been missing for long. We just saw both of them at lunch."

"Yeah, and Chase left early with those new nurses from radiology."

Wilson frowned. "And he's not back yet?"

"Nope."

Wilson considered for a moment. "Well if Cameron isn't in your office, maybe she's with Chase now." He said this more on a hope than an actual suspicion.

House rolled his eyes and twisted his mouth to the side. "Am I the only one who sees that they are currently on a break? Now whether this break turns into a break-UP which is more permanent in  
nature . . ."

"They couldn't both possibly stay on your team," Wilson said, the ramifications striking him. "And knowing Cameron, I doubt she'd even want to stay at the same hospital." Wilson looked steadily at House. He knew that even though his friend would not want to admit to it, this would be an injurious blow.

House had a protective feeling towards Cameron that had maybe, at one time, been more, and he had an almost fatherly feeling towards Chase. The possibility that one, or the other, or both might leave House's employ could be emotionally devastating to him, particularly coming on the heels of his release from Mayfield. "Do you think either of them has talked to Cuddy yet?"

House swung his legs off the couch, stood up and loped across the room. "Excellent idea," he said as he breezed through the door, leaving it standing open behind him. Wilson was alone again with his thoughts, wheeling through his mind like birds.


	8. Chapter 8

**8 – "****Pulling the puzzles apart. Questions of science, science and progress, did not speak as loud as my heart."**** – "The Scientist" – Coldplay**

If truth be told, House had been looking for an excuse to have a one-on-one alone with Cuddy for several weeks. Every time he had tried, she had come up with a plethora of excuses. They were good excuses, but excuses, House knew, nonetheless.

His relationship with Lisa Cuddy had always been an elaborate dance, each partner somehow cognizant of when the tempo was about to change. But since their passionate kiss last year, it was as if their dance had not only gotten faster but had begun to be performed on the edge of a precipice.

Cuddy had lost her first bid for adoption of a baby; the birthmother suddenly changed her mind and decided to keep it. House had been giving Cuddy a hard time about the adoption all along. At the time, he thought he was just trying to enlighten her to the heavy responsibilities of childrearing. After all, as Wilson had said, "If she can't deal with your insanity, she has no right to try and raise a baby."

But in hindsight, and after many sessions with his shrink, Dr. Nolan, he had realized his own jealousy of a baby in Cuddy's life. His worldview of scarcity in everything, particularly in love, meant that Cuddy would have nothing left to give to him when she had a baby. No attention, no clever banter, nothing. And nothing was not something that House was prepared to receive from Lisa Cuddy.

So when the adoption had fallen through, he realized he was no longer in danger of losing the dysfunctional, yet familiar, relationship he had with his boss. In a magnanimous gesture, or so he told himself at the time, he had gone over to her house, simply to console her, to try to be a friend to her, to show her in some way that he wasn't heartless and that he truly did care.

And she had called him on it. As she so often did, she saw through his deflections and acidic comments to House's true motives; that his unremitting crusade to marginalize everyone's feelings arose from his desperate need to erase his own agonizing ones.

And that was when he had kissed her. Standing together fully clothed but emotionally naked, he had pressed his mouth to hers. She met him halfway and as their breathing quickened, their tongues had found each other, their arms wrapped round each other and their hands had moved along the lines of their bodies.

He had been the first one to break, to take a step back, ignoring the blood pounding in his body and brain; ignoring the terrible longing in his heart. The same longing that had been, inconceivably, reflected in Cuddy's sea green eyes.

He had walked away from her then, run away from her really, as fast as his handicapped leg would allow and wished her good night. He had left her confused and shaken but still whole. He had not added insult to injury by taking advantage of her need to be held, her need to be loved after her painful failure to, once again, become a mother.

She had recognized his self-control and even thanked him for it the next day. She had acknowledged that once their kiss had begun, he could have gone as far as he wished and she would have gratefully followed, if only to forget her heart-wrenching loss for just awhile in his warm embrace and their mutual passion.

What she hadn't seen was how much it had taken him to do just that, to walk away from her. That to him, a night with Cuddy would have meant refuge and peace, evoking emotions much deeper than he was willing to go, a healing balm, albeit a temporary one, to his injured soul. For as much as she needed him, he had needed her, still needed her, more.


	9. Chapter 9

**9 – "****I had to find you, tell you I need you, tell you I set you apart. Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions, oh let's go back to the start."**** – "The Scientist" – Coldplay**

House burst through the outer and inner doors to Cuddy's office with a speed that seemed unreasonable for a man with a crippled right leg. Lisa Cuddy looked up at House's six foot, two-and-a-half inch frame as he came to a halt in front of her desk. Even with her highest heels, the top of Cuddy's head barely met his chin.

She instantly knew from his demeanor that he was worked up about something. She also knew that he would probably use his height to intimidate her into giving into whatever was his current, crazy whim. But most often the best weapons in his arsenal remained his azure eyes. A simple intense look on his part and she found herself acquiescing to his insane requests, many times just to guarantee his exit before her knees gave way from underneath her.

"House, I'm meeting with some donors in a few minutes so if you'll just let me . . ."

"Oh no," House said, cutting across her, "You're not tossing me out this time. I need some answers from you right now. Your donors'll have to wait." As he spoke, he tilted his chin down, looking out at her from beneath his furrowed brow.

Cuddy flopped back into her chair, both from defeat and as an escape from his steady gaze. "Just make it fast House," she said as she began straightening the papers in piles on her desk.

Now that he was in her office, talking to her privately and face to face, House was more than a little tentative on where to start. He found he needed a few steadying breaths before he began. And the slight pause caused a look of concern to cross Cuddy's face.

"House, are you all right?"

There it was again. The huge gap yawning between them built upon years of attraction and avoidance and now, increased in its span because of his breakdown and tremulous road to recovery. As long as she continued to treat him carefully, as if at any moment he might break, they would remain on unequal footing. And after years of practiced steps to their particular dance, House was off-balance with this softer, more patronizing, approach.

"I'm fine" he groused. "I need to know if Cameron or Chase has come to you with a resignation."

"What have you been doing to them House?"

"Nothing!" House said, raising his voice several decibels. "Why do you immediately blame me?"

"Hmmm, let me see, maybe tons of previous experience?"

Cuddy sighed and leaned forward, placing her elbows on the desk. Her desk . . . from med school; the desk that House had secretly gotten out of storage and had delivered to her office when she was redecorating as a broad romantic gesture. Every time she walked into her office or sat in her chair doing paperwork and making phone calls, it was as if he was standing next to her, brushing her cheek with his long, tapered fingers. She mentally shook herself. Best not to let her mind wander in that direction; best to deal with the cane-wielding matter at hand.

"I'm not blaming you for anything," she continued, allowing the sarcasm to drain away from her voice. She was now back in professional mode. "But if there is a problem with Cameron or Chase and this hospital, this is the first I'm hearing of it."

Cuddy noticed that, rather than relaxing, House seemed to, surprisingly, tense up at this news. The muscles in his jaw clenched, making his ears rise slightly. Cuddy simply stared at him, refusing to be baited, waiting for him to choose his next course of action.

"I thought we could talk . . .," House began, his quieter tone more off-putting than his shouting, which she was accustomed to.

"I already told you that I am meeting with . . ."

"Not now, necessarily. After work one evening. I'd spring for dinner."

Confusion contorted Cuddy's face. This was a new course that she was not at all sure she wanted to follow. "House . . ."

"If you don't want to leave Rachel for the evening, we could get take out. Or I could impress you with what I learned in my cooking classes and whip up something in your kitchen." House was obviously off-balance in this tack as well. He was looking at her again, as if searching for encouragement, with a child-like eagerness animating his rugged features.

Cuddy reined in her immediate sympathetic reaction because she knew that, one, sympathy or pity of any kind pissed off House. And two, she knew that it would make what she needed to say to him that much more difficult.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said.

House blinked at her and then he lowered his eyes to the floor. "And I don't think it's a good idea to leave things festering between us." He waved his right hand as if brushing away an insect. "At least, that's what my shrink says."

"House," Cuddy said, obviously shaken by his undisguised honesty. "Haven't you ever wondered why the timing has never been right for us? Maybe it's just a sign that certain things . . . are just not meant to be."

House's reaction was immediately reflected in his eyes. He was both stunned and wounded. But Cuddy needed to finish. She needed him to understand that her feelings and decisions were no longer based on him. Nor were they a result of his recent mental collapse. Or so she told herself.

"I need a man I can rely on and my daughter does as well. That's a lot of responsibility and I just don't think you're ready . . ."

"You're seeing someone." It was a statement, not a question.

Cuddy caught at the current of emotion in his voice, so deeply shattered that he was now barely audible. "House, my personal life is, well, personal," she said in a husky voice.

"Do I know him?"

"Does it matter?"

"So I do know him," he said. "And you felt you couldn't tell me because, what? I'm too fragile? It's still too soon after my release from Mayfield?" His voice had grown louder again. He looked indignant, his eyes now focused on her with an almost resentful pride.

"I haven't talked to anyone about who I'm dating."

"So there's a level of embarrassment there, or insecurity. Well that certainly narrows the field."

Cuddy stood up. This was the House of old. The House that was, to her, so easily recognizable; the fighter, the great deflector. He was hiding his vulnerability in the search for an answer to this latest conundrum.

"This isn't another puzzle for you to solve," she said in a tired voice. "Can you at least value our friendship enough to spare me that?"

"I have always, will always, value your friendship," House said quietly.

And this was the House that so rarely showed himself, the one that shocked Cuddy to her core with its unabashed emotional honesty. Maybe this is the House that had always been there but was buried so deeply, underneath sarcasm and lashing out, that even she doubted his existence.

He turned quickly on his heel and headed for the door.

"House!" Cuddy shouted after him. She suddenly felt as if she were drowning. Why didn't he stay and fight? "Where are you going? What about your department?"

He answered as he placed his hand on the door, "Frankly my dear . . ." Then he turned briefly to look at her again, his eyes searching her face as if memorizing each feature, as if he would never see her again.

"I'm taking a day or two. Foreman can handle the department and Chase and Cameron can help if anyone ever finds them. And I hope that Lucas makes you happy. You deserve to be happy."

With that parting shot ringing in her ears, he walked out the door, leaving a grief-stricken Cuddy behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

**10 – "Now girl I know the difference between right and wrong. I ain't gonna do nothing to break up our happy home****."**** – "If You Don't Know Me by Now" – Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes**

As Cameron was walking out of the cafeteria, she spied Foreman walking in. He gave her a curt nod as they passed, letting her know that he was bringing House a case file.

Foreman had adamantly refused to get in between the two angst-ridden newlyweds. But that decision did not keep him from trying to waylay House with a case so that she and Chase could talk alone. Even though she knew that he was, true to his nature, covering his own ass by doing so, she was still grateful to him. She nodded back to him as she headed for the front doors. She needed a breath of air.

She took her time, circling the building, enjoying this last gasp of New Jersey's late Indian summer. She looked down as she walked, her small shoes crushing the crisp leaves on the path and her eyes avoiding the students as they passed by. The breeze, though still warm, contained the scent of apples, dying leaves and wood smoke, all harbingers of the coming fall.

As Cameron made her way back round to the front of the hospital, she heard Chase's voice. Yet it was unfamiliar, high-pitched and ringing with laughter. It was such a long time since she had heard anything like mirth emanating from her husband. She walked quickly toward the steps leading to the parking lot, heading instinctively in the direction the sound had come from.

She looked up just in time to see Chase getting out of the back of a compact car. He turned and held out his hand, helping a leggy nurse exit the back as well. Taking the nurse's hand, he pulled, but exerted a bit too much leverage which caused her to fall into his embrace, snorting with laughter.

The driver had just exited also and turned, laughing at the other two. But her gaze went beyond her two former passengers to the steps where Cameron was standing. Cameron's dumbfounded expression wiped the smile from the driver's face as quickly as snow on a hot stove.

The other two looked up to see what had unsettled her and stopped laughing too. Cameron merely stood on the steps, waiting. Chase approached her while the two nurses chose a safer side entrance.

When he got a few steps away from his wife, he found he had lost his nerve. He briefly looked down to the pavement. When he looked up, Cameron slapped his face so suddenly and ferociously that it surprised them both.

"I'm done waiting," she said. She tore her wedding ring from her finger and threw it at his chest. "I'm done waiting for you to tell me what this is all about. Apparently you have no problem sharing your . . . self with your new friends!" The last statement came out as a hoarse cough.

"Cameron," Chase said. "I've wanted to tell you but I just didn't know how. The Dibala case . . ."

Cameron's mind roiled like a ship on a storm-tossed sea. Why was he bringing this up now?

"What? What about it?"

"It was me," he said. It seemed that now that he had chosen his path, the words tumbled over each other in their haste to be revealed. "I falsified his records. I chose to provide the wrong information. Information that I knew would lead us to give him the wrong treatment. Information that would kill him."

Cameron simply stared at him. Her husband, the man whom she had married only a few months before had just confessed to murder - cold, calculated murder. Her eyes began swimming with tears and her ears seemed to be filled with a wall of sound.

Slowly, Cameron realized that the sound she was hearing was not inside her own head. The roar was somehow familiar and throaty and coming from the parking lot. When she looked up, she saw House on his motorcycle coming to a slow, deliberate stop only yards away from where she stood.


	11. Chapter 11

**11 – "I wondered what might happen if I left this all behind, would the wind be at my back, could I get you off my mind, this time?**.**" – "This Time" – Jonathan Rhys Meyers**

Cameron experienced only a moment's hesitation. And then she found herself running down the steps, her vision blurred to everything save for the man on the bike, who was taking off his helmet to hand to her. She put the helmet on as she jumped on the seat behind House. The bike was already rolling when she clasped her arms snugly round his waist. His leather jacket felt cool to the touch at first and then as she leaned into him, she felt their mutual body heat warming the leather, making it feel supple and alive.

House felt Cameron's body press into him as the bike accelerated. It seemed the faster he drove, the closer she hugged herself to him. His left hand squeezed the clutch as his left toe lifted the lever, smoothly shifting gears again, heading towards the parkway. He wanted to stop to pick up a helmet for himself but what he wanted more was the feeling he was having now, of Cameron's arms wrapping round his waist, her breasts pressing into his back and the warmth of her legs wrapping round his hips as she steadied herself on the speeding bike.

So he kept driving, with no clear destination in mind. The cool of the air on his face and the warmth of Cameron's body encircling him were enough. House barely noticed the hills and pastures of Princeton giving way to the flat sandy barrens and scrub pines as they rode toward the coast. Somehow, House knew they would end up here. He just wasn't really sure how he knew.

They finally stopped at a bike shop and House bought Cameron a helmet so he could have his own back. Then, as he became engrossed with the new bikes on the sales floor, Cameron disappeared into the dressing room with a salesgirl. When she reappeared, she was dressed in leather boots, chaps, a halter top and small jacket. House could no longer remember what he was saying to the salesman and both he and the other man stared for a few moments until Cameron broke the awkward silence with a laugh.

"Put that stuff on the tab too," House said.

"No, this is extra," Cameron spoke up, "It's fashion, not safety. I can get this."

"Just so long as you wear it . . . now."

Cameron nodded her head and turned back to reclaim her things from the dressing room.

"I told you your boyfriend would love you in this outfit," said the salesgirl. "Food, fast bikes and women in leather, it never fails, especially if they have a cute figure like yours. You should definitely show it off."

"Thanks," Cameron said blushing. "But he's not my boyfriend."

The salesgirl stopped and gave Cameron a knowing smile. "Honey, if he's not now, he soon will be. I saw the way he looked at you, even before you put on that outfit. And," she paused as she handed Cameron her shoes, "more importantly, I saw the way you looked at him."

Cameron was stunned into silence as she walked back to the register to pay for her shopping spree. Climbing back onto the bike, she felt empty-headed once more, as if too much information was jockeying for her attention. So she allowed the vibration of the bike between her legs and House's warmth as she embraced him, drain away everything else. The only thing that remained was her awareness of her heart beating against her chest so hard that he must surely feel it.


	12. Chapter 12

**12 – "****At night we ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines" – "Born to Run" – Bruce Springsteen**

Cameron felt the bike slow as House rolled off the throttle, downshifting as he exited the parkway. She watched over her shoulder as the sun, like a huge half-slice of blood orange, dipped below the squat trees, shooting its last crimson rays through the deepening cobalt blue, heralding the pending darkness.

Dusk caressed the narrow streets of the town by the time they drove along Atlantic Avenue. The greying light brought the parallel lines of the street into sharp relief against the pavement as Cameron felt her hips tilt in cadence with House's as he controlled the bike's slower undulating curves. By the time House parked the bike in front of a Victorian inn, the street lights flickered to life and dark clouds were rolling in from the sea. Cameron awoke as if from a dream and grudgingly slid her arms from House's waist. He felt her hesitancy and found that he was reluctant to leave her embrace as well.

"Hungry?"

"Starved!" she replied, finally waking from her silent reverie to the uncomfortable feeling of an empty stomach.

"They've got great seafood here, the scallops are excellent. Great Italian too. Up for some calamari?"

"Am I okay dressed like this?" Cameron asked.

House straightened up with his cane next to the bike. "Better than okay," he said, his eyes appraising her entirely, from her new helmet to her new boots, perhaps lingering a bit longer on her halter top.

Then looking quickly away, he added, "They get tourists in shorts right off the beach in here. I don't think there's such a thing as a dress code. Not that anyone'd care if there was one with the way you look."

He glanced down again as he said, "I'm taking the ramp, it'll be easier on my leg. Steps are faster, if you want to meet me on the veranda." He took his first two limping strides toward the entrance.

Cameron noticed that there was a greater hitch to his movement, probably due to the increase in pain from spending a good part of the day on the bike. But true to his nature, he was stoically refraining from making it into a big deal, and she admired him for it.

"Hey, I've stuck with you this far, all the way from Princeton. Guess it would be rude of me not to go the last mile with you. Or at least, the last few steps up the wheelchair ramp."

House turned back to see that she was smiling up at him, her cheeks still flushed from their ride. Then, for reasons he was never quite sure about, he reached out his hand; and as if it had been preordained, she put her hand in his so that together, they walked up to the porch.


	13. Chapter 13

**13 – "One man betrayed with a kiss. In the name of love! What more in the name of love?" – "Pride (In the Name of Love)" – U2**

"What did you say to him?" Wilson asked. He was standing, hands on his hips, in the exact same spot that House had occupied not long before, directly in front of Cuddy's desk.

"Oh God, I should have known the cavalry would ride in," she said.

Wilson continued in his accusatory tone. "He wouldn't even talk to me! He just grabbed his leather jacket and mumbled something about taking some personal time and . . . are you all right?" Wilson's speech slowed as he examined Cuddy more closely. "Lisa, what happened?"

"Do I look as bad as that?" she said with a sniffling chuckle. "I must really be a sight if you're using my first name."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Cuddy looked up into Wilson's comforting brown eyes. "Thank you. No," she said. "I don't know if there's anything anyone can do. I feel like I've made such a mess of things when all I'm trying to do is move on with my life, to create a good life for me and my daughter. I never meant to hurt . . ." Her voice trailed off as she sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I know that Lisa." Wilson spoke quietly. "And House knows that too."

"Does he?" she said. "Does he? Or does he only see what he wants to see? Only how things affect him?

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "And you don't?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm only saying that we all process information according to what we want, what we wish for, how we see things."

"Yeah, well you can't always get what you want." Quoting House quoting The Rolling Stones only made Cuddy's heart ache anew with the painful irony of her situation. It was the little ways in which House influenced her, had always influenced her, that seemed to bear down on her now. He was the voice inside her head, the sarcastic joke, the clever banter. And he was so much a part of her life physically as well. Hell, she wouldn't even be dating Lucas if she hadn't met him through . . .

She started talking fast and without thinking, desperately trying to free her heart and mind of the constrictive feeling that she was now experiencing. "If we processed things according to what we wished for, then I would be dating . . . I mean I wouldn't be dating . . .," she broke off.

"You told him that? You told him you're seeing someone else?" Wilson seemed genuinely shocked.

"I didn't have to," she said in a defeated voice, "The genius bastard guessed."

"He guessed who you were seeing?"

"Yes."

"And he is . . .?"

"Lucas."

"Holy . . . ," Wilson gulped, swallowing his swear. "Cuddy, House considers Lucas a friend. This is a . . ."

"A what?" she said, her face flushing. "A betrayal? Don't you think I know that? Don't you think that that's the reason why I've kept this a secret?"

Wilson turned to the chair in front of her desk and sat down. "Lisa, if you really had moved on with your life, you wouldn't have needed to keep this a secret. You would've told me. You could've told House."

Cuddy's mouth gaped like a fish gasping for air. She quickly shut it again. "So you're blaming me for what, hurting him? Don't I have the right to live my life for myself and my daughter?"

"Why do you think that sharing your life with House AND your daughter are mutually exclusive?"

Cuddy leaned back in her chair. "I know you're his friend. I know you want to defend him, but . . ."

"I'm your friend too."

"Meaning . . .?"

"Meaning I think you and House could actually be good together." He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "Meaning I think that if you two stopped for just a few minutes with your porcupine mating rituals, lowered your defenses and looked hard and honestly at each other, that you would both see how much more in common you have with each other, how much you truly care about one another. Cuddy, you are possibly the only woman that I know who could actually stand up to House and he respects you for it. And respect is the best foundation for . . . ," Wilson lowered his eyes again, ". . . love."

Cuddy rolled her eyes at this last but Wilson soldiered on. "And House is changing, has changed a lot since he's gotten back from Mayfield. He's stayed clean. He's still seeing his psychiatrist. And he's trying to make his life better and you are an important part of that. Only someone he cares deeply about would cause him this much agida."

Wilson waved his left hand as he became more intent on his message. "You're the biggest reason he wants to get better, so he can make you happy. When he felt like he was losing you after his hallucination, he chose to ignore everything else, the puzzles, the games, everything! He took my advice to make you angry so you would talk to him. That's when he yelled from the balcony . . ."

"_Your_ advice?" Cuddy was thunderstruck.

Wilson realized he had gone too far. He dropped his head in his hands and said in a muffled voice, "Don't feel too bad about your betrayal. I've just betrayed him myself."

"How? What do you mean?"

"He made me promise never to tell you how he felt. How much he wanted to be with you. How much he was willing to change to have a life together with you."

Wilson took a long pause and then continued. "I asked him if he wanted to be the man with all the answers, the man who was always right." Wilson lifted his head. "And then I asked him if he would rather be the man with you." His voice became full of emotion. "He chose you."

Cuddy rose unsteadily to her feet. The events of that fateful day began spinning in front of her again beginning with the hurt and anger that she felt when she found out that House had yelled from the second floor balcony that he had bedded her. And when he later burst into her office, the shock and pain of seeing House, seeing the bleak expression start to form on his handsome face, the look of confusion and panic reflected in his beautiful blue eyes, the stark realization that he had somehow fallen, fallen away from reality into a pit of despair so deep that he could not, even with all of his strength and brilliance, pull himself out.

"After he yelled from the balcony, he asked me if I wanted to move in with him. I didn't think he was serious. I didn't realize . . ." Her shaky voice trailed off. "And then everything else happened so fast, he came into my office. He wasn't making any sense. He completely panicked when he looked at his pills and it seemed like he couldn't hear me anymore."

"He was reacting to realizing that his delusion of you two sleeping together wasn't real and he was hearing . . ." Wilson swallowed hard. "He was listening to Amber and Kutner's accusations."

"He told you all that?" Cuddy asked, the blood completely drained from her face.

Wilson nodded. "It all came out as I drove him to Mayfield. It was like a dam burst inside of him. Once he started, he couldn't stop, couldn't censor himself.

Cuddy walked round to the front of her desk, looking down at Wilson, still seated in front of her. "I don't know what to think, what to feel anymore. I don't know what to trust. House has never been someone I could depend on, on a day-to-day basis." She looked so tired, so defeated.

"That's not fair," Wilson said gently. "You're basing your conclusions on the House that was addicted to Vicodin."

"And who else have I been dealing with for the past how many years?" she countered. "No matter what he does, or says now, that's all I have to base my conclusions on."

She folded her arms in front of her. "And House will always be an addict. Haven't you considered that his pursuit of me is just another form of his addiction? As soon as he _attains_ his goal, he'll quickly lose interest?" Cuddy's face turned hard. "Well that's just not acceptable in my world anymore. And it's certainly not acceptable for my daughter. We deserve better."

"Yes, you do, you both do. You deserve to be happy."

Wilson had unwittingly echoed his best friend's last words to her. Cuddy hastily bit her lip to keep her emotions in check.

The two friends looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. It was Cuddy that finally broke the silence.

"I don't think it's very fair that House has you fighting all his emotional battles for him."

"And I don't think it's fair you're using Rachel as a wall, as an excuse, from showing House how you really feel about him."

The color rose once more into Cuddy's porcelain features. But before she could formulate her response, Wilson rose to leave. He crossed his hands in front of his body and then quickly opened them wide, looking for all the world like an umpire who had just called a base runner "safe."

"No, I'm done," he said. "House has been fighting his own battles and demons for quite some time. And if you were being fair I think that you'd give him a little more credit for that."

Cuddy closed her mouth and smiled sadly. "You're right," she said quietly. "Thank you. Thank you for reminding me of that." She reached up and touched his face. "Dear, faithful Sancho."

Wilson looked down, smiling sadly too. "Beneath his heavy armor, I believe beats the heart of a noble knight . . ." He paused, "who dost not realize that he is a knight nor of noble character."

Cuddy bit down on her lower lip again trying to regain her shattered composure. Her eyes filled with silver tears as she watched Wilson bow, take her hand and kiss it.

"But remember that I am also faithful to you my lady . . . the lady Dulcinea." Without another word, he turned and left her office.

She stood, rooted to the spot in front of her desk, the same place where both House and Wilson had stood and both had vacated. It was a little while before she was able to move again. And when she did, the tears in her eyes spilled down her cheeks and mixed with the blood from her bitten lip. She licked the moisture, tasting the saltiness of her blood and that of her tears as she allowed them, finally, to fall freely once more.


	14. Chapter 14

**14 – "****A bottle of white, a bottle of red, perhaps a bottle of rosé instead. We'll get a table near the street . . . you and I ****–**** face to face.****" – "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" – Billy Joel**

As House and Cameron walked into the restaurant, a clap of thunder echoed outside. The storm was building in strength as its iron-grey clouds quickly scudded in over the sea.

The woman standing just inside the door was checking a datebook that rested on top of a tall, wooden podium. She was small, smaller even than Cameron, with wavy, strawberry blonde hair and large green eyes positioned proportionately on a heavily-freckled, stationary-complexioned face.

"Dinner for two?" she asked with just a hint of Irish lilt to her voice. She smiled sweetly up at House who couldn't help but smile back as he nodded his head. Cameron released House's left hand and stepped up to stand next to him, taking his arm while looking daggers at the hostess.

The young woman took the hint and gestured to a nearby waitress who escorted them to a small table near the back of the restaurant. House and Cameron both decided to keep their jackets with them, House because he had put the bike's keys in one of his pockets and Cameron, because she was still feeling a little self-conscious about the leather halter top she had on.

After the waitress lit the candle in the center of the table, she handed them menus and left them alone, promising to return soon with water and to take their orders. House realized that this was the first time they would have a chance to talk since their flight from Princeton Plainsboro. In typical House fashion, he decided to dive right in.

"So Chase finally told you that he iced Idi Amin Jr.?"

Cameron's jaw dropped. "Of course _you_ knew, didn't you? And what? You thought it was FUNNY to let me stew and wonder why my marriage was crumbling to pieces? You couldn't have told me?"

"Not my place. And yeah, it was kinda interesting watching you squirm."

"You unbelievable son-of-a-bitch!"

House was spared any further remonstrations by the waitress' return. He ordered calamari and oysters on the half shell for appetizers, lasagna for his main course and a bottle of wine. Cameron ordered linguini with clam sauce. The waitress, sensing some impending explosion that had nothing to do with the thunderstorm outside, beat a hasty retreat.

Cameron opened her mouth again but House spoke first. "Actually, all things considered, I've always been _completely_ believable as a son-of-a-bitch. And before you climb back up onto that high horse of yours, what makes you think you're in a position to judge Chase?"

"I'm NOT judging him. I'm . . ."

"Ho, ho, _hoooo_. Are you just kidding yourself with that excuse? Because _I'm_ not falling for it."

The two were silent again as the waitress brought the wine. House took her return as an opportunity to leave the table. The waitress poured a glass each for the two of them, then left Cameron alone once more.

She listened to the heavy sound of raindrops turn into a forceful torrent, mixing the pungent smells of wet autumn leaves, drenched pavement and sea air. She took her glass of wine and raised it to her lips just as House returned.

"Hold on," he said, as he sat down and immediately raised his glass. "I think this occasion calls for a toast. To convenient and selective memory. So that we can be right, no matter the situation or the cost to our respective relationships." House clinked his glass against Cameron's, drained it and poured himself another.

Cameron did not join him in his toast. She set her glass firmly on the table before she spoke again. "What are you talking about? Am I supposed to automatically know . . .?"

"I'm talking, my dearest, darling Cameron, about a little matter and a little man named Ezra Powell."

Cameron's face flushed beet red. "Why are you bringing that up?"

"So glad you asked. But first, I'd like to see you finish that glass. You're already one behind and I think you might need to get a little loaded tonight, particularly with what you've been through and what you're _going_ to go through."

She caught at his last words, innately feeling the subtext but realizing that requests for an explanation would be futile. As soon as she set the glass down, House refilled it, and his own as he had already finished his second.

"Who gets to decide, I wonder, on where to draw the line on murder?" House said. "Two men, several years apart. Sure, one of them _wanted_ to die . . ."

"And he was dying to begin with," Cameron said.

"We're all dying," House said. His face became very serious as he leaned forward across the table, the orange flame from the candle reflecting in his dark blue eyes not unlike the last rays of the sun in the darkening sky that Cameron had just witnessed.

"Aside from the fact," she said, "That we've all taken the Hippocratic Oath, 'First, do no harm . . .'"

"And how do you know that Chase didn't have his fingers crossed when he took that oath? I know I did."

House paused to top off their glasses again.

"You _and_ your husband have both purposely taken a life. That's the truth. Whether the person had a terminal illness and wanted to die so it was for his own good or whether the person, if he had survived, would have taken many other lives, thus making it for the greater good. In the end, those details are just semantics. Doesn't change the fact that, in each case, a life was sacrificed."

"You told me that you were proud of me," Cameron said quietly.

House noticed the slight catch in her voice as she spoke. The candlelight throwing starbursts on her blonde hair and playing about her delicate features was dizzying. But he threw caution to the wind and poured them each another glass of wine, motioning to the waitress to bring another bottle.

"I was . . . I am," he said, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. "That's not the point, though, is it? The point is what _you_ think about what you did. How you interpret, explain or, as necessary, excuse your actions. Because in the end, you're the only person whose opinion really matters, no one else's. He stopped, looking at her straightforwardly, as if his eyes could bore into the very depths of her soul.

Cameron was surprised when House stopped talking. She had expected a much longer lecture. She slowly looked up into his face. And what she saw there, surprised her even more.


	15. Chapter 15

**15 – "This time you've gone too far . . . Digging in the dirt, to find the places we got hurt." – "Digging in the Dirt" – Peter Gabriel**

"I just keep getting forwarded directly into his voicemail. He's shut his phone off," Wilson said as he closed his cell phone. He looked at Chase sitting in the chair in front of his desk. The younger man's shoulders slumped, clearly registering his disappointment.

"Thanks for trying anyway Wilson. I thought maybe he'd pick up if he saw your name on his phone." Chase's mouth drew out in a tight, straight line as his jaw worked up and down. "Cameron's not picking up either."

"Well, you can't really hear the phone ring with all the traffic noise on a motorcycle," Wilson said.

"No, she's shut her phone off too."

"Did you two argue or . . .?"

"If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it." Chase looked down at his hands, clasped together on his lap. "And Wilson, maybe we could keep this whole thing just between us?" Chase seemed like a small child requesting a special toy from Santa Claus but knowing he'll never get it.

"You mean keep this whole thing between us _and_ the twenty or thirty people in the parking lot who saw House driving off with your wife?" Chase recoiled as if he'd been hit in the stomach. Wilson realized that he had inadvertently hit a nerve on the already injured Chase. He seriously began to question whether he spent too much time with House and his special brand of unvarnished honesty.

"Look Chase," he said. "House probably needs to just blow off a little steam. He likes you _and_ Cameron, together . . . as a couple." Wilson's backpedaling was starting to sound pathetic, even to himself.

"I'm fine with that," Chase said, his face and his voice hardening. "As long as that steam he blows doesn't end up being my wife." Chase stood up and walked to the door of Wilson's office, throwing it open and slamming it shut behind him.

"_Damn House!"_ Wilson thought. _"What could have been going through his mind to drive off with another man's wife? Not just anyone, but Chase's wife, with Cameron! Their history alone should have given him pause."_

But Wilson realized that when House had gone down to speak to Cuddy, had found out that he had lost her, perhaps permanently, and to Lucas of all people, he was no longer able to weigh his actions or reactions. For although House so often praised the logical, he was, in reality, a very emotion-driven animal; fully capable of acting merely upon instinct and whim.

Why hadn't he stayed, fought with Cuddy? House was nothing if not a fighter, fighting against the norm, fighting for those he cherished and cared for, fighting for his patients and what he thought was right, fighting for his own survival. He was like a lion in the deluge of a thunderstorm, roaring against the wind and water, railing against the crashing forces trying to pull him under and drown him.

And yet, while it was true that he had always been the fighter, House was only the knight against injustice to the forces outside himself. When it came to his internal life and emotions, House more often than not, assented to the status quo, to that of misery and depression. It was as if House, in a strange way, felt he deserved to be miserable, unloved, lonely. It was simply easier for him to submit to his own self-destructive nature that must always speak louder, must always say that he was unworthy of happiness and a better life. That was the reason why he connected with so few people. Connections could lead to emotions and emotions gave others power over House, to inflict pain upon him, and that is what he could not endure.

Wilson began to think of what kind of environment could create that kind of rationale. He knew House had been abused by his father as a child, just by several of the comments House had made on the drive to his father's funeral. That had been the first time he'd even talked about his father's influence on his childhood. And Wilson felt deeply, that the huge amount that remained _unspoken_, even between the two close friends, was a weight that had been crushing down upon House for many years, bending him and reshaping him into the emotionally warped individual that had become his best friend.

His best friend. How many times had House proven his true value as a friend over the years? Always in his own manic way and in his own peculiar timeframe, but constant in his alliance, particularly whenever it seemed that Wilson needed him the most. He was the one friend with whom Wilson never had to pull his punches, or could, indeed, ever hide from. House was the ultimate truth seeker and whenever Wilson had tried to obfuscate, House had promptly swatted him down, either verbally or occasionally physically. He could be, had to be, completely open with House. Within the confines of House's camaraderie, Wilson was truly free. And House, for his part, was always steadfast in his loyalty to Wilson, even when, it proved later, that Wilson was clearly in the wrong.

And throughout their friendship, House had confirmed, time and again, that he was, indeed, capable of more than simply emotional knee jerk reactions. Wilson had personally witnessed the many times House had set in motion some elaborate plan, with an almost psychic foreknowledge of how the people involved would react within the parameters of his required domino effect. Witnessed? Hell, Wilson had often been a pawn in those games. All the while, House would sit back in his chair, with that aggravating self-satisfied smile, looking like some demented grandmaster who had just achieved checkmate in his tournament finals.

He remembered when House confessed to having sex with his college roommate's girlfriend. His roommate was going to marry the girl and House needed to show his friend that the girl was mentally unstable, incapable of a committed, loving relationship.

Perhaps House had tried to talk his friend out of getting engaged to the girl. On second thought, Wilson was sure that House had. When had House EVER NOT verbally eviscerated someone when he felt that that person, particularly a friend, was about to take a misstep.

When talking had failed, he had pulled out all the stops, had decided that the only way to show his friend that his fiancé was wrong for him was by proving it himself. The fact that he, House, was personally involved in the betrayal became inconsequential, secondary to his almost holy mission. That he also got some sexual satisfaction from it was merely icing on the cake. He had proved his point, had broken his friend up from the girl. But he had also lost his friend in the process. Why was House so blinded to the repercussions of his own actions? Why could he not see the hurt and the pain he caused with his words and deeds, especially and most irrevocably upon himself? Wilson shrugged. For such a brilliant man, House so often seemed obtuse on this point.

Wilson knew that House didn't really mean to cause pain; there was no actual malice aforethought. There was only what House thought was right and what he thought was wrong. Pain was collateral damage, acceptable collateral damage. He simply caused pain because he was unable to feel anything but misery himself; he would argue that his actions didn't cause extra pain because the pain was there to begin with.

Wilson's mind was spinning.

Could House escape the influence of his past? Or would it always be there, like his limp and his cane? Would he ever be able to have a truly satisfying, intimate relationship with anyone or would he drag them down with him like a drowning man reaching into the lifeboat for help but, instead, pulling his rescuers away from safety and into what would become for them all, a watery grave?

No. House had already come too far, made too many changes in his life, suffered too much. Wilson refused to believe that there could be no redemption for his friend. That possibility was unacceptable. House would somehow, someday, hopefully soon, grab hold of the lifeboat and haul himself in. He would take up the oars and row for home, with all the courage and tenacity and righteousness that were, inherent in his nature. Now that he was off Vicodin, he had that chance to make it. And if someone as broken as House could make it, could find salvation, then perhaps there was a chance for others, maybe even Wilson, as well.

Wilson smiled. He hoped that there was room for Cuddy and Rachel in that boat, and that when House finally pulled into shore, the three of them would find safe harbor together. With that encouraging thought, Wilson rose from his chair, leaned forward, and turned off his desk lamp, just as he heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. His office was momentarily pitch black as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

But in the fleeting blindness of his darkened office, Wilson still felt a nagging fear. For the demons that rallied against House were great. And House, for all his brilliance, could so easily lose his way in the dark.


	16. Chapter 16

**16 – "I'm tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago and it went right to my head." – "Show Me the Way to Go Home" – Emerson, Lake & Palmer**

The look Cameron saw on House's face was the same one he had worn earlier in the cafeteria, the one she originally assumed was false. And it was the same expression she had seen one other time, the time their patient, a professional photographer, had been in danger of losing her baby and her life due to mirror syndrome.

The patient had taken random photographs of the doctors and staff as they were going about their duties in her room. The picture that had always stood out in Cameron's mind was the one of House. House had apparently turned back toward the patient. His expression was, curious, intrigued, ever the puzzle solver presented with a new enigma.

His eyes, however, gave him away. Too often Cameron found herself focusing on them only for their exceptional color. But the black and white photograph held something deeper, an unfathomable expression, like a painful neediness swirling about in their depths, a need to help, a need to heal. It was nothing less than a true caring for his patient, for her as woman, a potential mother, as a human being.

Of course when House walked into the lab and saw his team studying the photo, he quickly snatched it away, probably destroying it, she no longer remembered. Why else would he do that unless to continue his mission of emotional subterfuge; to prove to everyone else that he was unfeeling, uncaring and beyond the human capacity of emotion? He had to destroy any evidence that might possibly stand in stark contrast to his well-documented insensitivity.

Didn't the possibility exist, then, that the truth might be so far different, that House was, in reality, so much more sensitive and emotional, that the only way he had found to cope with the pain the world could bring him would be to deny the very existence of its hold on him?

As the waitress brought their dinners and they silently ate together, she thought back to one of their first serious conversations, the talk they had had when she told him about the death of her first husband. He told her that she couldn't be that good a person _and_ well-adjusted, someone who would marry a man _after_ finding out that he had a terminal illness. If she was, she would just end up crying over centrifuges for the rest of her life, which, of course, she had been doing. She countered that if he were the same, a truly sensitive individual, he would resort to being a misanthrope, rather than allowing people close enough to hurt him. He never denied or deflected her comment. But he had run away which, now that it occurred to her, seemed much more telling.

House had stopped looking at her. He seemed to be pondering the layers of cheese and meat in his lasagna as he continued placing forkfuls in his mouth. She pretended to be intently twirling the flat strands of linguini onto her fork, trying to avoid noticing him or the growing silence between them.

"Why do you care House?" she finally said.

"I don't," he answered, suddenly put on the defensive. "You just need to realize . . ."

"Now _I'm_ the one not buying what you're selling," she said quickly. "Why else talk to me this way? Why else take me with you on your bike? Why else would you be looking at me the way you are right now if you didn't care about someone other than yourself, if you didn't care about how I feel?"

House was visibly shaken by her last statement. But then a small smile crept across his face. It was unnerving to Cameron, to say the least.

"What, you didn't consider the idea that maybe I'd just like to give you a ride on the baloney pony? Now _I'm_ disappointed in _you_. You were always such a clever girl, always so quick to catch on."

It was Cameron's turn to be visibly shaken. "But we're going back to Princeton tonight."

"Not in this rainstorm we're not."

"But I thought . . ."

"Look," House said, his self-satisfied grin spreading wider, "You can do whatever you want. But me and the bike stay here. I've been caught in the rain while on the bike but there's no way I'd purposely go out in a squall like this." As if to add emphasis to his words, a bright shock of lightning flashed outside at the same time the thunder rolled. The lights in the restaurant promptly went out, the atmosphere lit only by the candles on the individual tables.

"I already talked to the manager and got the inn's last room for tonight. He told me there's a king-sized brass bed in it." House leaned forward slowly, like a cat that had ensnared a mouse by clamping down on the rodent's tail with his paw. And now, the cat was unmistakably luxuriating in the total power and control he had over his prey. "Too bad you didn't bring your handcuffs."

The mouse, or rather Cameron, felt her heart leap into her throat. This wasn't what she had expected at all. Or was it?

Certainly with House it paid to expect the unexpected. But was it entirely unexpected that he might make a play for her in order to make her feel vulnerable? He had teased and baited her before, and always with a purpose.

The one time she made a direct play for him, on their only serious date, he had insulted her, said that the only reason she was interested in him was because she needed to fix him, a damaged person. Only later, and after a great deal of reflection, did she realize that instead of purposely wounding her, he had received his intended result, she backed off.

But what if she took him up on his game? How would he change the rules then? She decided to go "all in."

She felt her lips curl up into a coy smile. "Who said I need handcuffs? Bath towels work fine too." She defiantly met his gaze as her mind formed a visual image of what her words had suggested.

House was the first to flinch. He leaned back in his chair until he was resting on only the two back legs. He drained yet another glass of wine and said, "Yeah that's what I figured. And you keep ordering all this wine so you can get me drunk and take advantage. Oh wait, that was my plan."

Cameron realized that she was feeling quite heady, that she had already had too much wine. But she also felt good, warm, relaxed and . . . desirable. Something she hadn't felt with Chase in some time; if she was being honest about it, even before the situation with Dibala had put the final wedge in their relationship. It pleased her vanity and made her feel better than she had in awhile. And she was grateful to the man who was making her feel that way, even if he was just deflecting.

House sensed a mood change. Instead of knocking Cameron off-balance with his sexual banter, she seemed oddly receptive. He realized, too late, that the both of them had already imbibed too much wine. For the umpteenth time, he caught himself looking at the way she filled out her little halter top. He knew this was getting too close to dangerous ground.

The waitress came by to see if they needed anything else as they had already finished their meals. Cameron was about to order more wine when House waved her off.

"Oh no. No more for you," he said as he settled the chair back down on the floor and leaned forward. "The last thing I need is for you to throw up on my shoes. We both know you can't handle your booze."

He paused. The Cheshire cat grin crept once more across his face. He hadn't run out of game plans yet. "Or was it drugs that made you sleep with Chase that first time? I seem to remember you were either high or drunk."

Her reaction was immediate and, for him, completely expected. "And why do you think you're so superior?" she hissed angrily, sitting straight up in her chair. "The only women you can get, you have to pay for."

"A whore is a whore whether she gets paid or not."

Cameron slapped his face.

For the second time that day, she had slapped someone's face. And strangely, she regretted this one even more than the former. Maybe because she had always felt that particular night she had let herself down more than anyone else.

When the drugs had started to take effect and she began to feel euphoric, she knew her body wanted sex. She wanted to feel it, to experience it, to revel in it the way nice girls like her were never supposed to. But when she picked up the phone and dialed a number, she ended up _not_ calling the man she really wanted to make love to her.

Why had she called Chase when who she really wanted was House? How many times since that night had she asked herself that question? Maybe because some part of her knew that House wouldn't have slept with her. As warped and twisted as his motives were at times, he still retained his own moral code.

His code didn't necessarily follow the norm. For instance, he could, in good conscience, sleep with another man's wife. But Stacey and House had been a "pre-existing" condition, and in that case, Cameron felt sure, that House saw Stacey's husband, Mark, as the interloper and not himself.

And the night that she was high, she needed to be wanted, to be taken with no chance of rejection. House was an unknown quantity then just as he was now. To his moral code, sleeping with a tripping Cameron may have been out of the question, might have been taking too much advantage of her, his employee, even if she was the one to suggest it.

Chase was "the sure thing" and everything after that, their entire relationship, had grown out of that haphazard, settling for second best, one night stand. House had only told her how she already felt about herself. And she had slapped him for it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have done that. I didn't mean to do that."

"Yes you did," House said. "And I can't say as I blame you, although more people would have noticed if the lights hadn't gone out."

"Do you think I want to be noticed? Do you think I want to be the center of attention, to keep making mistakes and making a fool of myself in front of other people?"

"Again," he said. "It's not important what I think or what I want. What do _you_ want?"

Cameron's blue-grey eyes met House's deep sapphire ones. The candle's flame was not the only thing reflected there. Tiredness, maybe a bit of the caring that she had seen earlier, but an overwhelming sadness that perhaps he thought she wouldn't see there in the half-dark.

"I want," she said, "to go to bed. I'm tired and a little drunk and . . . sadder than I've felt in a long, long time. I just want to sleep and forget, even if it's just for a few hours."

House reached across the table, and took Cameron's hand once again. "That's my girl," he said. "A problem delayed is a problem denied. Come over to the dark side. Come bathe with me in that greatest of rivers, de-Nile."

House stood up and took enough money out of his wallet to pay for their meal and leave a healthy tip besides. Tossing the cash on the table, he took her hand again and led her up the stairs and to the rooms above.


	17. Chapter 17

**17 – "In this world, I lock out all my worries and my fears." – "In My Room" – The Beach Boys**

The room's appointments well befit a Victorian inn on the Jersey shore. House and Cameron could see, even from the dim light of the candles they had brought with them, the chairs and sofa were framed in richly carved, dark woods. The pillows, comforter and wallpaper looked to be upholstered in light colors to offset the wood, but with way too many flowers for House's liking.

But a room was a room, and a room with a bed in it, at that point, suited House and Cameron just fine. House limped over to the bed and hooked his cane to the first column of the brass bed's headboard.

"Mine," he announced. "If you expect me to take the couch, let me tell you right here and now, that chivalry is not only dead but it has been justly shot, boiled, plucked, stuffed, basted, baked and served up for five o'clock chow."

"That's okay," Cameron said. "I didn't expect you to take the couch. It would be too hard on your leg, particularly after all day on the bike."

House had anticipated at least some argument. Not complete and immediate compliance from Cameron. He sat down heavily on the bed, massaging his already aching right leg.

"Look," he said, his voice sounded slightly tense. "This is a king-sized bed. We could share it without ever coming near one another. In fact, you're so tiny, you'll probably get lost in there and I'll have to call in a search party to find you in the morning."

Cameron had nearly settled herself on the couch but the bed, not to mention the man in it, was a far more preferable option. Yet she held back.

"Can I trust you?" she said.

"Well, I can't promise that I won't at least cop a feel, but I'm pretty tired. I'm also pretty old so I don't think you have to worry about it."

Cameron nodded and came to stand next to the left side of the bed, the same side where House was already sitting. She placed her candle on the nightstand and turned to sit down next to House.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," House said, stopping her mid-sit. "How do I know I can trust you? You did eat oysters and drink a lot of that wine and I know how irresistible you find me. How do I know you won't try to ravage me in the night?"

Cameron stood back up, laughing in spite of herself. "Because I'm even more tired than you are and even less inclined to screw up my life any more than I already have."

"You haven't screwed up," he said. "I mean, yeah, you have screwed up every relationship you've ever had, pushed the people that you care about the most away from you, became addicted to pain killers and started hallucinating so that you had to be put into a mental hospital for . . . oh wait, that was me again, right?"

Cameron looked at House sitting there and smiled. "You haven't completely screwed up either," she said. "And you've made a lot of progress since your release from Mayfield, doesn't that count for something?"

"Yeah, well, we'll see. Certainly can't expect too much from me though, judging from my track record." House tilted his head back slightly and seemed to study her for a long moment before turning his head away.

With startling clarity, Cameron suddenly understood all the old arguments with Chase, her reluctance to completely commit to a relationship with him, to plan a future together, children. Never, in all the time together in their relationship, did she experience feelings for Chase that she felt for this man seated in front of her now.

There was never any middle ground, no ennui with House. It was always, always, all or nothing at all. No one else made her feel the gamut of emotions, anger, frustration, and the opposite end of the spectrum, admiration, respect and . . . perhaps it was always there, would always be there . . . love.

House excited a passion within her that Chase never had, perhaps no one else ever could. Cameron sat down next to him on the bed, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. She reached out to him, laying her hand on his shoulder, her index finger, lightly touching his neck. She drew her finger along the line of the scar where a bullet had severed his artery several years ago. Obviously, House would never be someone that didn't excite a passionate response in every person around him.

At her touch, his head jerked quickly round as he silently regarded her. And as she gazed into his eyes, Cameron realized that no matter what he said, no matter what he asked, she would be unable to refuse him.


	18. Chapter 18

**18 – "****Long ago I reached for you and there you stood. Holding you again could only do me good. Oh, how I wish I could, but you're so far away" – "So Far Away" – Carole King**

Cuddy was grateful for once, that Lucas wasn't meeting her right after work that night. She needed to compose herself. She needed time to think.

As soon as she got into her car, she turned off the CD player. The upbeat music that she had been playing that morning was too sharp a contrast to the heaviness of her heart and mind. She had had confrontations with the two most important men in her life that day, and she needed quiet time to mull over her own reactions, her own feelings.

Strange, that she thought of House and Wilson as _the_ two most important men in her life while Lucas did not even come into consideration at all. If she naturally felt that way, then where _did_ Lucas fit into her life? Shouldn't he be on her short list of her most important men? Shouldn't he be her best friend?

Somehow, she just could not accept Lucas that far into her life. She knew she considered him a friend; there was no way she would think about sleeping with him otherwise, but _best_ friend? No, definitely not.

The sting of that sudden awareness flooded her system and made her tears flow in shimmering trails down her cheeks again. She felt as if she had been crying all day, as if she would never stop crying. She pulled the car over to the curb for a few minutes to get a handle on her emotions before pulling away and heading toward home once more.

As she stepped on the right pedal, the first man her troubled mind turned to was Wilson. Wilson was the perennial shoulder to lean on, the good friend. He was an excellent doctor, smart, funny, good-natured and boyishly handsome. Those traits had made her consider asking him for a sperm donation when she first went through IVF. And they had even gone out together several times after his last marriage had broken up. Whatever happened with that? Why hadn't that gone farther?

She knew the answer to those questions before she had even finished forming them in her mind. Once again, the specter of House had risen up between any thoughts of a deeper relationship with Wilson, just as they were rising now between she and Lucas. He was the reason her thoughts first went to Lucas and then to Wilson, to avoid the true all-encompassing figure of her deepest hopes, her greatest fears, Gregory House.

They first met in med school; he was already the 'legend' on campus. Unimaginably sharp, focused and brilliant he was brash, argumentative and impossibly arrogant with colleagues and professors alike. The guys envied him, or wanted to kill him and the girls, well, the girls talked in hushed whispers in the library, in the cafeteria, in the halls and the dorms about the tall, lanky, smart ass with the talented guitar fretting and the devastingly blue eyes.

Lisa Cuddy was just starting at Michigan when she first met Greg 'G-Man' House. The university bookstore was crowded on her third day at school but the good-looking young man behind the counter took the time to cuttingly sum her entire life up in just the few seconds it took to review her syllabus.

"Your overloaded course schedule suggests that you're overly ambitious but no classes before 11AM shows that you like to party. And you have a huge chip on your shoulder and desperately want to prove yourself because you've signed up for Professor Lamb's course when Professor Siegel is the easier grader."

The funny thing was, he was right, and Lisa had to admit to herself that she was intrigued and just a bit smitten when she asked almost everyone she knew on campus about the clever, sarcastic med student. She followed him around and even pretended to audit his endocrinology class.

Then came that fateful night at the university hoedown when the tables were turned and she recognized that she was no longer the pursuer. House purposefully sought her out and by the end of the night, her fantasies had been realized, thanks to some intellectually stimulating banter, her low-cut red top, high-cut black skirt and a homesick roommate that had gratefully gone to visit her parents that weekend.

House, for all of his supposed selfishness and arrogance, had proven to be the most attentive and altruistic of lovers. Combining those qualities with his youth and enthusiasm made for a most memorable night.

But she had woken up to an empty bed the next morning and as the days stretched to weeks with no word from him, an empty heart. Only then did she comprehend just how hard she'd fallen for him. She found out that he had been expelled from school, which excused him for awhile, but then with no word, she went on with her overly ambitious, 'party girl with the huge chip on her shoulder,' life, eventually proving herself in the professional arena.

Personally, however, success, happiness and long-term commitment eluded her. The men in her life tended to be threatened by her; by her intelligence, her strength, her tenacity and her attractiveness. But no matter how lonely she was, she refused to change or modify her behavior. She was who she was and others needed to accept her for that.

And then Greg House came back into her life. Just like when they were in school, he blazed back into her secure world in a whirlwind of emotions and tears, drama and betrayal. She ended up being the doctor overseeing his case after he had been misdiagnosed in the PPTH clinic.

The infarction in his right leg that had been left to fester for over three days, more than justified its removal. But House stubbornly refused to let them take his leg. After he'd been placed in a chemically induced coma, Stacey, his live-in girlfriend, agreed to the surgery that would remove a great deal of his thigh muscle. Cuddy supervised the team that performed the surgery that may have saved his life but, most certainly, crippled him and left him in severe, lifelong pain as well.

Soon after, as Dean of Medicine, she hired him to head the diagnostics department at Princeton Plainsboro. It was easy enough to explain away her reasons for doing so, he was still incredibly brilliant and his employment there brought many professional accolades. Perhaps her hiring of him had more to do, however, with her own guilt over the surgery and his ensuing dependency on pain killers. Her decision was also heavily influenced by the subsequent break-up of his relationship with Stacey and Cuddy's need to protect him, in some small way, from any more pain, whether physical or emotional.

It wasn't sympathy, and she wasn't even sure it could be called love but nevertheless, her inevitable connection with House had so many emotional peaks and valleys, that neither one could truly say how reliant they were on each other. It was something that could never, perhaps would never, be put into words. It had to be felt. They were irrevocably bonded to one another as if no power on earth, above or below it, could break their bond.

But their invisible tether to one another had been stretched to the breaking point after last year. Flirtations, power plays and a stolen kiss seemed to be drawing them, finally, together before it all went to hell.

How had she missed his months-long downward spiral? If she was honest with herself, she knew that she had, in some way, felt it. But after adopting Rachel, she became a little more impervious to House, a little less tolerant, a little less aware of his mood shifts and a little more self-protective. That was why she didn't recognize his desperation and his final cry for help. She was not sure she could ever forgive herself for that. She was sure that House would never forgive Rachel, whom he must see as a usurper of Cuddy's time and affections and as the person who stood between him and the salvation he sought through Lisa Cuddy.

Her motherly instincts had kicked in full force. She had chosen to be with Lucas because he was more easily controllable. He was safe; safe for her, safe for her daughter and his presence would act as a buffer to keep them both safe from the emotional tornado that was House. But in choosing the safe route, she had chosen with her wits and not her heart. She had chosen a life of self-sacrifice for her child. She knew when she became a mother that there would be things that she would, thereafter, be accountable to do without. But in becoming a mother, she never realized that she would be forced to choose one love over another. And she was heartsick for it.

She realized she had never before crystallized her current situation. For so long, she had been torn between protecting the two people she loved from further pain. Now, she was protecting them from each other.

As she pulled into the driveway, she felt as if her spirits sank into her ankles when she saw Lucas' car already parked in front of her house. She was tired and miserable and Lucas, for all his good intentions, would only exacerbate her feelings.

She hurried to her front door as the trees leaned with the increasing wind. She paused a moment to look at the shadowed sky. Her large blue-green eyes shone clearly in the dark by the light of her front entryway. She saw the clouds swirl overhead, obscuring the moon and stars whose faint light still outlined their menacing inky shapes against the backdrop of night. A storm was coming.

As she swung open the door, she could smell the dinner Lucas had made still warming in the oven. While it smelled good, the thought of food made her feel nauseous.

"Hi hon!" Lucas said, walking out of the kitchen as she closed the front door behind her. "I made . . . what's wrong?"

"Where's Rachel?"

"I already fed her and put her to bed. Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"Not right now," she deflected as she took off her coat and placed her briefcase by the couch, intentionally avoiding his gaze. "I'm going to check on Rachel."

"Don't you want any dinner?" Lucas asked.

"No, I'm not hungry."

Cuddy walked into the nursery and looked down upon her daughter in the crib. Her eyes filled with tears once again as she stroked the child's dark curls. No matter what Wilson said, no matter what she, herself, felt for House or how strongly she felt it, if it came down to a choice between House and her daughter, there was no choice.

She heard Lucas enter the room and walk up behind her. He placed his arms round her, clasping them at her waist and whispered into her ear, "I know how I can make you feel better."

Cuddy cringed inwardly, fighting her reaction to move away, to free herself from his bear hug. Lucas took her by the shoulder, gently turning her to face him.

"Are you gonna tell me what's really wrong?" he said.

"Just had a rough day, that's all," she answered as she looked into his vague blue eyes. He wasn't buying it. She knew she'd have to think fast to change the subject. Faking a smile, she said, "What about your offer?"

Lucas was sidetracked easily. He smiled and took her by the hand. He led her to the bedroom where his offer was consummated. He left her there in bed alone so that he could clean up the kitchen and put away the food that was no longer wanted.

Cuddy laid there, an empty vessel in the dark. She thought that the physical release would ward off the feelings threatening to envelop her. But she had only gone through the motions, had felt nothing during the act, nothing for the man in bed with her, nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing.

There, alone in the dark, she couldn't stop the full force of the day's events running through her brain again. Thinking led to feeling; her overwhelming love for Rachel, her friendship with Wilson, the irresistible pull of love and desire for a man that was so far away from her, in mind and body, that she was bereft of hope.

She heard Lucas reenter the room and climb back into bed beside her. She turned onto her side, facing away from him and pretended to be asleep. Not long after, his regular snoring signaled to her that he had drifted off. Even with Lucas lying there next to her, she felt more alone than she had in a long time. And, although it took hours, she finally quietly cried herself to sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

**19 – ****Still, there's something you should know, that I could not let show, that fear of letting go. And in this moment, I need to be needed. With this darkness all around me, I like to be liked. In this emptiness and fear, I want to be wanted, 'cause I love to be loved" – "Love to Be Loved" – Peter Gabriel**

"Cameron, I think . . .," he began. But then he felt Cameron's hand move to the back of his neck and pull him inexorably down to her face. He didn't resist.

She kissed him, softly at first but then with increasing vigor. He could taste the wine on her tongue as she slowly began exploring the inside of his mouth. Somehow, the wine tasted sweeter on her tongue than on his own.

His hands reached up to either side of her face as his own tongue pushed its way into her mouth. She let out a faint gasp and her hand slipped from his neck to underneath his shirt, making small circles across his shoulder blades.

He let his left hand drift down from her face along her neck as he leaned forward, using his body to push her back onto the bed. His right leg felt as if it had been lit on fire but he ignored it as he shifted his weight, pressing into her with his hips. His hand continued to move down and when he reached her halter top, he lightly traced the outline of the leather, feeling her body tremble, before reaching around her breast and giving it a firm squeeze.

Cameron's breath hitched audibly as she released a sigh. She opened her legs, moving her right leg up to wrap round his hips, bringing herself closer to him, feeling the heat from his body and his physical need for her radiating outwards.

It was bliss, better than she had imagined it. For the first time in a long time, she knew exactly what she wanted and it was right here, right now, gliding with practiced hands along her body and moving on top of her in the flickering candlelight.

She kept her right hand in between his shoulder blades, massaging him. With her left, she smoothly reached down in between their curving bodies toward his waist. He let out a soft moan into her open mouth, exciting her more as she began to undo the buckle of his belt.

His hips began to roll in smooth, undulating turns and Cameron raised her left leg to clasp House's other hip, locking him against her in a vice-like grip.

Suddenly, the lights in the room went on.


	20. Chapter 20

**20 – "It's easier not to be wise, measure these things by your brains. I sank into Eden with you . . ." – "I Alone" - Live**

House broke away, rolling off her and gasping for air. Cameron unhitched her legs halfway through his roll so that she had moved with him part way, ending up laying next to him and no longer under him.

Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the silent room. Cameron, lay on her side, watching House who reclined on his back. She scrutinized his face for any show of emotion. He had made it more difficult for her by laying there with his eyes closed.

Finally, he opened his eyes. It appeared to her own, disbelieving ones, that his eyes were rimmed with silver. Then he coughed, blinking several times, and the tears she thought she saw there were no more.

"Not a good idea," he said quietly.

"Why not?" she said.

He cleared his throat, coughing again. "Because you're not the kind of person who can off-handedly commit adultery. And I . . . well, I don't think I should make a habit out of sleeping with married women."

"Stacey was a long time ago and . . ."

"I'm not talking about Stacey," he interrupted her, a sharp edge to his voice. He lay there, staring at the ceiling. The confusion he felt moments before was being overshadowed by the other feelings that Cameron's kiss had presented to him. He was feeling warm, comfortable . . . safe.

"I met a woman while I was in Mayfield," he said.

"Another patient?" she asked in a voice that held neither criticism nor judgment.

"No. She was a visitor. Her sister-in-law was a patient there."

He paused. Cameron said nothing. Her right hand still lay upon his chest. She could feel the gentle rise and fall as he took each breath. And she could feel his heart's steady pounding as she patiently waited for him to continue.

"Her name was Lydia," House said. It was the first time in many months that he had said her name aloud. He continued, closing his eyes with the effort. "She became . . . we became close."

After another long pause, Cameron finally asked, "Did you go to bed with her?"

House opened his eyes and turned his head to face her. She was surprised to see his lips curled into a small, mischievous smile.

"Well not exactly _to bed_," he answered. "More like _to chair_. But yeah, we . . . did." He turned to stare at the ceiling once again.

"What happened?"

"Her sister-in-law got better and she moved away with her family."

"You lost her?"

His eyes closed tight before he answered. "Yeah, I lost her."

"But you made a connection with her, cared for her, maybe . . ." She swallowed hard, "Loved her. That's what matters, isn't it?"

"Cameron, I _lost_ her."

Cameron rolled onto her back, her hand slipping from his chest, and stared at the ceiling too. "And I've lost Chase."

"No, you haven't. Not really, not unless you _want_ to lose him."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like I was saying before, it all boils down to what story you tell yourself so that you can look in the mirror every morning," House said. He rolled over onto his side, resting his elbow on the bed and cradling his head in his hand. He looked at Cameron's delicate profile. God, she was so pretty. Her extraordinarily large, grey eyes, her petite nose, full, kissable pouting mouth. And he had just been reminded how kissable.

He twitched his head sideways to refocus his mind. He needed to be very careful here. Just like her porcelain features, Cameron's heart was quite breakable. And over the years, he had probably caused her more than her fair share of pain, certainly more than she deserved from him.

"People like me and Lydia," House said, "Can live with themselves, can live with their decisions. You're not like that. As judgmental as you are with others . . ."

At this, Cameron quickly turned to face him, anger burning like a blue flame in her eyes. But House's voice stopped her before her fury was able to roll off her tongue.

". . . you're even harder on yourself," he finished. "And your morals aren't . . . flexible enough for you to be able to face yourself in the mirror after sleeping with someone other than your husband."

Tears filled her eyes but did not spill over. House knew she felt the truth in what he was saying. He lay on his back again, his brow furrowed in thought.

"House?" she said, her voice sounding small.

"Hmmm?"

"Did you tell anyone . . . I mean, have you told anyone else about Lydia?"

"Except for my shrink, not a soul."

"Not even Wilson?"

"No."

"Can I ask you another question?" she said.

"You just did."

She smiled. "I mean another question?"

"Oh, then no."

"Have you . . . been with anyone since Lydia?"

House turned to look at her, suspicion reflecting in the infinite depths of his narrowed eyes.

"Why do you want to know?"

She didn't answer him but merely looked at him. She reached her right hand out and placed it, palm down on his chest again. He flinched at her touch but didn't remove it. The comforting drumbeat of his heart relaxed her, relaxed her features.

House's features relaxed too. He turned his head and stared at the ceiling again. "No," he whispered.

"Not even a hooker?"

His head snapped round to face her, indignant fury etched in every line of his face. "Do you think I could be with someone who cared about me, who held me in her arms and then go right back to a pro who's only watching the clock?" His eyes were blazing and his angry voice was filled with a crackling volatility. "Oh yeah, that's exactly the same thing! I guess someone like _me_ wouldn't notice any difference at all between a person who had real feelings for me and a paid stranger who won't kiss me on the mouth and only cares about how much money I have in my wallet!"

"House . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"Forget it!" he said, rolling away from her. "Listen, let's get some sleep."

"Can I still sleep in the bed?"

House had begun shifting over to the right side of the bed when she spoke. He stopped at the sound of her voice, so much like a little girl, afraid to do or say the wrong thing.

"I'll sleep on the couch," he muttered. "That way you can be more comfortable."

"No," she said, and she put a hand out to stop him. "You're right. This bed is big enough that we can both sleep here without . . ., please stay here, please make it easier on your leg."

He looked at her for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes measuring her, judging whether she could or would hurt him. "Alright," he said simply.

House limped over to use the bathroom as Cameron turned down the covers. He wordlessly gave her his button-down shirt when she said she was loath to sleeping in her leathers.

She noticed that he kept his t-shirt and jeans on until she closed the door to the bathroom. When she came out, she saw his jeans hanging over the nearby chair and House laying on his side in the bed. He had waited until she was out of the room before he removed his jeans. She knew that he had done that to avoid her seeing his scarred right thigh.

She turned off the lights but left the candles burning, bathing the rich woods and fabrics of the room in a warm glow. She crept into bed and hunkered down beneath the covers.

"House?" she said.

"Oh God, what now?"

"Can I . . . can I hug you? I mean, can we spoon?"

"Spooning leads to forking," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I want to hold you. For all intents and purposes, we already spooned on the bike. I want to hold you," she repeated. "And I want you to feel . . . ," her voice trailed off.

"Held?" he said. Then he was silent.

"Slide over closer," House said quietly. And for the second time that day, he felt the warmth of her against his back, her breasts, her body. Her arm wrapped round him and her breath felt warm and moist against his neck. _God she smells so good_, he thought as he began to drift off to sleep.

"Goodnight Alison," he said, barely audible.

She never remembered him using her first name before, even through all the years they had known each other.

"Goodnight Gregory," she answered. And then she gently kissed the back of his neck. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.


	21. Chapter 21

**21 – "Morning has broken, like the first morning" – "Morning Has Broken" – Cat Stevens **

The soft grey light of an overcast morning began to creep its way through the corners of the shaded windows. Cameron's still closed eyes became dimly conscious of the increasing light. Her body became aware of a weight lying across her breasts and encircling her shoulder. A second or two later, her ears became attuned to a light, rhythmic snoring coming somewhere in the vicinity of several inches from her face. She opened her eyes and was momentarily startled to see House's face, close to her own, half buried in the pillow. Then the events of yesterday and last night came flying back and her tension eased. She smiled.

The morning light gently caressed the multifarious planes and angles of House's face. Light and shadow played about the high cheekbones, strong jawline with its signature stubble, the finely-shaped, straight nose and deep set eyes now framed by long dark lashes, closed as they were with heavy slumber. Cameron continued to look at him, to drink him in, every line and mark, as if she had never really looked at him before. How much younger did he look while asleep? It was as if his careworn face had shed some of its lines giving him the appearance not unlike the photograph of the boy that she had once seen in his high school yearbook. Of course, that boy had looked a good deal older than a teenager.

Cameron smiled again as she realized that she was trapped by the long arm draped across her; trapped that is, if she did not wish to wake him. And at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to watch him as he slept, so carefree and boyishly handsome. She had to suppress a chuckle as she thought how like House it was that even in sleep, he had still somehow managed to cop a feel.

Just when she began to consider ways to slip out from beneath his embrace, he groaned slightly and rolled over onto his back. As he moved, she slid out to the side, freeing herself from his one-handed grasp.

She lightly rose from the bed and, after checking to make sure that he was still asleep, made her way to the bathroom. After using the toilet, she brushed her teeth and washed her face, enjoying the envigorating feeling of the cool water on her pores. She raised up from the wash basin to look at her reflection in the mirror. The water made little rivulets down her cheeks, and her eyes, framed by her dark lashes, were highlighted by the silver droplets still clinging to them. It had been weeks since she had slept so well and her eyes were brightened by the experience.

Cameron continued to gaze at her own reflection. Who she saw in the mirror was someone she knew she must make peace with, someone who always played by the rules. But where had that gotten her? Her first husband was dead and her second marriage was crumbling. What difference did anything make? Whether you followed every rule or if, like House, you stampeded through them as if they didn't exist who could say what would make you happier?

Cameron and House were in the same place, an emotional hell of their own creation, even though they had taken two very different roads to get there. At this moment, she was very tired of following her chosen path and playing by the rules. The rules had always seemed to deny her what she wanted most. And what she wanted most, right now, lay in the next room.

House groaned again, louder this time, and she opened the door and stepped back into the bedroom to check on him. He was still asleep, still on his back. The arm that had been thrown over her twitched slightly and his hand momentarily clutched the air, as if searching for something. And then he went very still again, the silence only broken by his heavy breathing and the occasional snore.

Cameron took two steps back into the bathroom and this time, stared at herself in the mirror. What could she learn to live with? Could she accept that her husband had purposely taken another human life? Would she want to have children with such a man? Was this all happening because she deserved, somehow, to be punished for mistakes from her own past?

And what of House? Her thoughts about the man in the next room seemed a little more organized this morning than of the night before. That she had always been in love with him, she now was no longer in any doubt. But why could she accept his many flaws and failings and not her husband's? Was it because that, deep down, she had never really loved Chase? Or at least, perhaps she had never loved him as she had done House?

Tears sprang to her eyes at this last thought, that she had married a man whom she did not completely love. Even though she did not believe in the soul, she still felt there was an untapped part of her that only House could reach and no one else, not even Chase, ever could.

She looked again in the mirror. She held her own steady gaze as time seemed to move on through infinity. The wheels in her mind clicked into place as she made her decision. And as she walked into the bedroom, she turned back one more time to see her own reflection smiling at her.


	22. Chapter 22

**22 – "And if you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down. 'Cause all I really want's to be with you, and feel like I matter too . . . The past is gone but something might be found to take its place." – "Hey Jealousy" – The Gin Blossoms**

It wasn't often that Lucas got an earlier start than his girlfriend. She was definitely the "morning person" in their relationship. She liked to schedule meetings first thing, get the bulk of her work done early and then perform any wrap-up work in the afternoon. Lisa Cuddy was definitely a force to be reckoned with in the morning.

Lucas Douglas had never been that way. His brain didn't start snapping into place until well after lunch. He always felt more awake and sentient when the sun went down. He liked to think of himself as a sort of vampire, really coming alive after dark.

PI work had suited him well for just that reason. The majority of leg-work and stakeouts were always at night. Anything earlier was usually only by a few hours; follow the adulterous wife on the way to a lunchtime tryst with her illicit lover.

But today, Lucas was up, showered and dressed before Cuddy's alarm had even gone off. He was just making his way over to the nightstand to retrieve his wallet when the clock's buzzer sounded.

A "Humph" followed by a groan and Lisa's thin arm reaching for the off button kept him from making his inconspicuous escape.

"What are you doing up so early?" she asked in a very groggy voice. "And you're already dressed?"

"Yeah hon, I've got a new case I need to get a jump on," he said. He walked over to her, still lying in the bed, bent down and chastely kissed her on the cheek.

Cuddy uncovered her legs from the blankets, swinging them over to the side of the bed and placing her feet on the rug. "Oh, then good luck and have a good day," she said with a look of sleepy curiosity on her face. It wasn't like Lucas not to want an intimate encounter in the morning, even if they did have sex the night before.

"Thanks," was all he said as he walked into the hallway, heading for the front closet to retrieve his jacket before opening the front door and locking it behind him. He needed to avoid her this morning in order to steer clear of any problematic questions regarding the changes in his routine that she certainly noticed.

Lucas was feeling the unevenness of their relationship. They were not matched intellectually; although he was smart, Lisa was smarter, and physically, she was beautiful while he was, well, not in the same league. She made more money than he did and had a more prestigious position.

All these attributes made him feel extremely lucky when they first began dating. And most of the time, he was simply grateful that Lisa had chosen him over . . . well, had chosen him. But now, he was only feeling off kilter and insecure. He felt he was constantly running to catch up to her which made him occasionally, resentful.

While he so often liked the bragging rights he felt he earned by dating such an intelligent woman, there were times, like this morning, when it was extremely inconvenient. And he was definitely more than a little annoyed that she didn't recognize _his_ cerebral abilities.

He knew, of course, the reason for that. Lisa seemed to measure all men with the Gregory House yard stick. But there were precious few men or women anywhere, that could measure up to House's genius level.

By the same token, he knew that he was no slouch in the intellect department. That was why he was still smarting this morning that Lisa would naturally assume that she had so easily fooled him the night before. He knew she was upset about something and judging from the shine in her eyes as well as the timbre of her voice, she had been crying about it, whatever it was, a good long while yesterday.

He also knew that if Lisa had been as determined as she was last night to lead him off the scent, by changing the subject and even having sex, which she obviously wasn't into, that his only hope for tracking down the problem would be to beat her into Princeton Plainsboro and do some snooping around on his own time.

When it came right down to brass tacks, he knew, without investigating further, what had upset Lisa. There was only one thing that could shake her up so much as well as make her reluctant to talk to him about it. And that one thing was if she had a run-in with Gregory House.

In a lot of ways, he was indebted to House. Through House, he had first met Lisa Cuddy. And because of House's reticence to make a serious move toward Cuddy, Lucas was able to "get there first" as he had predicted to House last year.

But did it necessarily follow that Lisa had "chosen" him? Was it House's inability to follow through or, more probably, his mental breakdown and confinement in rehab that took him out of the running in the race to get to Lisa?

If House's breakdown had not happened, would he be the man with her right now? Or was he simply Lisa's fall-back guy, the second stringer compared to House's first team? And did House take it for granted that he could simply snap his fingers and Lisa would come running back to him?

Lucas had already done some investigating into Lisa's past. He knew that if she ever found out, it would be a real fight between them, possibly even end their relationship. But he had to know, had to discover the details involved with this strange, unspoken bond that existed between the woman he was seeing and Greg House. He knew that neither Lisa nor House recognized or would admit to how deeply connected they were. But it was always there, unconsciously uppermost in Lisa's thoughts and actions and threatening to destroy her and Lucas' relationship.

He knew that they had briefly attended college at Michigan together. But further than that, Lucas had been unable to discover. No one who knew them knew anything about a relationship at Michigan and the principals themselves had never admitted to anything.

He figured that if anyone should know it would have been James Wilson. As House's best friend, he would have been privy to that type of important information. But either Wilson was lying, highly improbable since Lucas could easily recognize fabrications, or he was as much in the dark as the PI himself.

Lucas had only met House because of the latter's fear of losing Wilson. House, for all his protestations to the contrary, was extremely sensitive and loyal. But House's fear of change and being alone cast a much wider net, encompassing other people. He had even tried to deny his feelings for Lisa when Lucas had called him on it. But Lucas was smart enough to know when he was being tossed a red herring. House had come to appreciate that. And soon enough, Lisa would as well.

You couldn't always predict whom House would take a liking to, but once he had, you could notice the value House set on the person by the way he tried to control, bully and barge his way into the person's life. This knowledge was definitely fodder that Lucas could use to his advantage; he knew just enough about House that he could really disable him and put him, permanently, out of the running in the Lisa Cuddy sweepstakes.

What neither Lisa nor House seemed to grasp either was how far Lucas would go to protect what was his. For now, he considered Lisa and little Rachel as his own, his family. And if Lisa or House thought he was going to give that up without a fight, then they had another think coming.

He drove past the PPTH lot, parking his car several blocks away and walking back to the hospital. He didn't want Lisa recognizing his car, looking for him and interrupting him. He had a lot of work to do and he did not want to be disturbed. If he was going to exorcise Gregory House from Lisa Cuddy's life once and for all, he needed a fool-proof plan, or more appropriately, a genius-proof plan. He also needed plenty of leverage to make it work.

He smiled as he considered his starting point, House's own inner circle. He was fairly certain that Wilson would remain closed mouthed but Chase? Cameron? Foreman? The years that they had been connected with House bespoke the importance House must place on their continued positions in his life.

Yes, House was most vulnerable in exactly the area that he denied most, his relationships. In order to protect the people he cared about, House would go to any extreme, break any rule. And that was where Lucas would find the evidence he needed. House, the ultimate puppet master, the ultimate cynic, would never see it coming but might know, after the fact, that Lucas had bested him.

Lucas smiled again. It was time to put his plan into action. For what he needed to do, he needed to do quickly because he was sure, that once House realized what his end game was, to forever remove Lisa Cuddy from his life and from his sphere of influence, that House too, would fight like hell.


	23. Chapter 23

**This Chapter is rated M as it gets a little racier.**

This is my first ever attempt at writing an intimate scene so please be gentle with me (pun intended).

**23 – "****Yes, you are just as water. You flow around all that comes in your way. Don't think it over, it always takes you over . . . How I'm moved. How you move me, with your beauty's potency. You give me life. Please don't let me go. You crush the lily in my soul." – "Moving" – Kate Bush **

Cameron tip-toed out of the bathroom and over to the edge of the bed. She leaned forward, sliding the button-down shirt over her head. As she did so, she breathed in House's scent. It was a heady mixture of soap and deodorant, bourbon and aftershave, motorcycle exhaust and leather. There was something familiar, satisfying about it particularly as these smells were now blended with her own from sleeping in the shirt.

She slipped out of her panties and folded them, with the shirt and her discarded brassier, over the same chair where House's jeans had been placed the night before. She stood naked next to the bed for a few moments more, her eyes fixed on House and firming her resolve. Then she reached over and smoothly pulled the covers of the bed down, revealing the still sleeping House.

He lay there before her stretched out on his back in his t-shirt and boxers. She looked down at the mangled thigh of his right leg. How much had that injury cost him, permanently scarring not only his flesh but his soul?

Everyone who had dealt with House before his infarction asserted that he had always been this way, a brilliant but arrogant ass. Cameron's opinion however had shifted from the popular theory. She knew that somehow, this injury was but the final nail in the coffin in the creation of his bitter, wounded personality.

She shook herself to refocus. She needed to concentrate on what she had decided her mission would be. Her eyes moved past the scars to what she had been expecting to find adjacent to that; House's morning erection straining against the elastic material of his briefs.

Cameron carefully lowered her body, face forward, onto the end of the bed. She slid herself, snake-like, along his legs until she was eye-level with his waistband. After first checking that House was still sound asleep, she gently, oh so gently, released him from the confinement of his shorts.

She paused. The objective perception of the physician momentarily overtook her and she marveled at his size, even though he was still not fully engorged. But that condition, she thought with a smile, would soon be rectified.

Grasping firmly at the base with her right hand, she took the head into her mouth with a tender sucking action. Her tongue moved quickly back and forth, up and down. House let out a low moan but remained asleep. Even with her mouth full, she smiled. Better that he remain asleep, even for just awhile longer, than to wake up too soon and possibly push her away. But as she moved her lips ever downward and her tongue continued its ministrations, she felt surer of herself that this time, he would not refuse her.

House smiled in his sleep as his head rolled round on his pillow. He was in the midst of a great dream. Scarlett Johansson and Angelina Jolie had been in a cat fight over him. As they rolled over together on the room-sized mattress that appeared underneath them, they began to kiss and fondle each other while tearing off their clothes. Suddenly, they reached up and pulled him by the waistband of his shorts into the fray.

The logical part of his brain that stood outside the dream was about to question this sudden time shift as he had been so enjoying playing the voyeur, when his body reacted to receiving physical stimulation. His ENTIRE brain then promptly told the logical side to "_shut the hell up"_ as he began to enjoy the feeling of the lips wrapped round him and the tongue moving up and down his length.

Moaning, he automatically rocked his hips, pushing himself deeper into his dream woman's mouth. He looked down to see who it was, but all he could see was the top of her head covered in wavy, dark hair. Neither Scarlett nor Angelina currently had dark hair and more importantly, his annoying logical brain reminded him, neither of them had black hair in his dream. Who was pleasuring him then? Letting loose another moan, he reached his hand down and touched something soft, yet solid.

He opened his eyes. His right hand had just grazed the top of Cameron's head. She continued swallowing him while working her tongue quickly from side to side. When she reached the tip of the shaft, she closed her lips snugly round him, giving him a playful nip, before sliding back down toward the base. She was, in short, giving him the best blow job he'd ever had. And that was really saying something, considering the number of professionals he had been with.

Cameron realized her subject had woken up and she leisurely rose up, straddling him. Her body was staggeringly beautiful in the early light of morning, the soft shadows clearly defining her graceful neck, her tiny waist and her small rounded breasts with their pink, erect nipples. House's eyes moved down to see the slight torso cleft that formed just under her breasts traveling down, connecting her navel and finally ending in the soft waves of hair curling on her pelvis.

House looked back up to Cameron's face, her beautiful face and as he did so, she spoke quietly. "If you want me to stop . . ." But the rest of her sentence was silenced as he placed his hands on her hips, pulling her to him as he slowly sat up.

He paused momentarily, his face just inches away, his eyes gazing deeply into hers, the azure and the grey staring at each other across an infinite span of time. And then he kissed her, roughly, passionately, tasting himself and her in her mouth. His arms encircled her and they fell together back down on the bed, moaning, touching, sweating, gasping for air.

House felt her hands desperately ripping at his t-shirt, removing it so that there would be nothing separating the mutual warmth of their skin.

He kept his hands on her hips, maneuvering her into position on top of him. He could think of nothing but of getting inside her, of possessing her completely. His entire brain had shut down and he was nothing, nothing but a mindless force, seeing, smelling, tasting, touching her. It was as if all else before was numb and he had suddenly been struck by lightning, electrifying his senses.

Cameron's mind and heart were racing. This was everything she wanted and more. As soon as she had stepped back into the bedroom, she had turned her thoughts off and had acted on pure animal instinct. House was acting like a man possessed and she only wanted to be possessed by him. She felt her inner core begin to ache, burning with her need to be filled. She wanted it all, she wanted to hear him moan, see the expression on his face, feel him release himself into the deepest part of her womb.

He flipped her over and with the fingers of his right hand, began stroking her intimately. She began writhing, both in pleasure and unfulfilled frustration, moaning and panting all the while.

Suddenly, he took his mouth from hers and opened his eyes. She opened her eyes in surprise at his sudden cessation of all movement. He still pressed against her, hovering over her, rocking gently, but deftly holding himself back.

"Do you want me?" he asked.

"Yes!"

His hand began to play with her again. He was making her feel so good. Is this how his guitar felt as he cradled the warm wood in his arms, gently strumming the metal strings?

"Do you want me?" he asked again, hotly breathing against her neck, planting tender kisses along her jaw.

"Yes, please!" He was teasing her almost to the point of climax and yet . . .

"Do you really, really want me?" he teased again.

Her answer this time came out in an almost plaintive wail. "Oh God, yes, please, yes, yes!"

House smiled. "Always knew you weren't an atheist." His mouth covered hers again and she felt him move over her, gently pushing inside her until she covered his length entirely. When he was completely enveloped, he paused. They both sighed. But then Cameron felt her body begin to pulsate as House started thrusting in time with her rocking hips.

Cameron curled her pelvis forward, allowing him to plunge deeper insider her. The muscles of her lower stomach contracted and she desperately needed to cry out, to scratch him to make him somehow feel the myriad of things she felt as her first orgasm shook her to her very core. She felt her walls contract around him, expecting that any moment he would follow her lead. But somehow he had been able to hold on.

House paced himself and slowed as Cameron's first orgasm began to subside. He let her catch her breath before he began moving faster again, clocking his movements with the increase in her respiration. He was controlling her pleasure, timing her ecstasy and he was reveling in it.

He began to glide his long fingers over her breasts and bowed low to allow his mouth to finish what his fingers had started. Cameron's hips bucked as the familiar tingling sensation fanned out and down. She pushed herself up into his descending, rotating movements. When she let herself go again, the second time felt even stronger than the first, curling her toes and forcing her to moan and pant in the midst of her rapture.

As the throes of her second orgasm began to wane, Cameron observed that House's rhythm never broke, he remained hard and fast inside her. Still gasping for air, she opened her eyes to see House with his head thrown back, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched with his effort. He was balancing his upper body's weight solely on his arms which were taught, the muscles and veins standing out in sharp contrast to his skin. He was covered in sweat and occasionally murmuring in between breaths for air.

House was able to keep going by focusing on the pain in his right leg; even though it was diminished from all the other impulses stirring in his body. He almost cried out when he felt Cameron's body contract around him and her nails dig into his back. He was alternating his rhythm by rotating as he thrust deeper.

Cameron moved her hands to House's shoulders, clasping them firmly in order to raise herself up enough to begin kissing and licking his neck and chest. At this, he moaned loudly bringing a smile to Cameron's face.

"House, look at me."

House's movements quieted as he lowered his head and opened his eyes. Just as their bodies were locked together, so were their eyes. To Cameron, she had never seen anything so beautiful and incredibly sexy. House's pupils were so large, they almost swallowed the irises' pure blue. But within the blue there was so much to be seen. No mask, no walls separated them. House's gaze was naked in its desire, its hunger and aching need for her. There were those things there but there was more. In that moment, in this space, Cameron's breathing halted as she recognized the final element in House's eyes. She saw absolute love.

Her body began to react again and she breathed to him, "Come with me."

He nodded but kept his steady gaze locked with hers. She reached up to touch his cheek and she felt him shiver at her fingers' contact.

House felt Cameron begin to writhe underneath him as her eyes closed signaling her last climax. Even if she had not asked him, there was no way he would have been able to avoid joining her this time. Her body's spasms were stronger and her voice, pitched high as she cried his name, drove him onward. He met her, stroke for stroke until he felt his own body contract into its final crescendo. He extended his neck and threw his head back again, his lips parted and his breathing labored. His heart was beating so hard, he wasn't sure if it wouldn't explode in his chest as he rode out the final waves of his release. He collapsed breathing heavily on the bed next to her, totally spent.


	24. Chapter 24

**24 – "****This old familiar craving, I've been here before, this way of behaving. Don't know who the hell I'm saving anymore. Let it pass let it go let it leave, from the deepest place I grieve. This time I believe and I let go." – "Love to Be Loved" – Peter Gabriel**

They fell asleep, locked in each other's embrace. House's long arms draped across Cameron's small frame, his hands clutching her, holding her close. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, perhaps an hour at least, when he opened his eyes. There, in his arms lay Cameron curled warmly against his body. He closed his eyes again, closed them in an effort to shut out the thoughts that were raging through his brain.

His thoughts began swirling around in his mind like dry leaves in a whirlwind. What had just happened between them? This was not what he had wanted. He had wanted Cuddy. But he couldn't have her, not now, perhaps not ever. And in the end, Cameron had been what he needed.

But how did Cameron feel? Was he what she needed or what she truly wanted?

True, Cameron had initiated this most recent act. Was it because she wanted him, House, or was she trying to manipulate him the way he usually manipulated others? Or even the way she had always manipulated Chase?

Cameron was endearing, yet controlling. She had proven that not long after starting on his team by the way in which she instantly exerted a sexual control over Chase. Just a few off-hand remarks and double entendres and he was practically eating out of her hand. And then, that night she experimented with a patient's drugs, got high and slept with Chase. Well, that was basically 'all she wrote' as far as Chase was concerned.

House had privately asked himself more than once if he would have slept with Cameron if she had called him that night instead of Chase. His ego was a little put out that she had _not_ called him. Yet every time he thought what his answer would have been, his mind came down on the side of no. To be intimate with Cameron that night would have been taking too much advantage, advantage of her vulnerability and her schoolgirl crush on him. And perhaps, even more importantly, it would have opened House up to a level of emotion that was just too painful, that he had spent too many years guarding himself against.

Foreman had always had it wrong. He was worried that every medical debate between himself, Chase and Cameron would soon become an argument of two against one. So he had complained to House, attempting to make him intervene by claiming that Chase would break Cameron's heart. But it had been Cameron in the driver's seat from the word 'go' in the relationship, a relationship that did not become intimate until after he, House, had refused to be with her.

House smiled as he thought how she would have bitten off far more than she could chew if she had tried to control _him_ the same way she had Chase.

But he also had to give her credit as well, for changing a great deal in the six or so years he had known her. She had become more honest with him, more honest with herself, stronger, more determined. She was almost like Cuddy when they had first met, the same need for approval, counter-balanced with the need to have a good time; the same desire to get ahead tempered with a massive chip on her shoulder.

Yes, Cameron had grown. There were obvious similarities between Cameron and Cuddy but Cameron was inherently different from Cuddy and it wouldn't be fair to either to confuse the two. Not to mention how unfair it would be to himself. House shook himself again. Thoughts of Lisa Cuddy were by no means welcome right now. He was still sore from the conversation in her office and what he felt was her most recent, and probably, final rejection of him.

And while it was true that Cameron had changed, she was still, in many ways, the beautiful yet damaged doctor he had hired six years ago. Wasn't that the reason she had always been drawn to House in the first place? Because everything and everyone instinctively seeks its own level? And hadn't this most recent action proven how wounded she was, simply by the fact that she had chosen House over Chase?

None of this had hit Cameron yet. But it was going to. Then how would she react? Would she see it as a mistake, probably the biggest one of her young life? Or would she consider it a sweet memory as he already knew he would, as he had done with Lydia?

Lydia. This was all her fault really. He hadn't lied last night when he said he hadn't slept with anyone since Lydia. How could he? She had forever shattered his illusion of a satisfactory yet lonely life. She had taken his need to be accepted, to be cared for, to be loved and dragged it out into the blistering light of day just in the short time that they were together in that darkened office. He could never again simply foster the needs of his physical body and ignore the deeper passionate needs of his heart.

_Damn her, damn Lydia!_ She was the reason why he was here now with Cameron. It was not only for Cameron's sake that he had taken her with him on his bike, had given her an escape route from the pain of her crumbling marriage. He had needed her with him, had wanted her with him.

But the difference between Cameron and his relationship with Lydia was its brief, ephemeral quality. He hadn't had time to screw up. With Cameron, he had screwed up a long time ago. There was just so much her tender heart could take before she turned to someone else and that someone had been Chase. Had he, House, been the reason she had run into Chase's arms? Did she really love Chase or had he been the fall back guy?

He didn't want to think about Chase, didn't want to think how much they had just hurt him. Lydia's family had been unknown to him, at least until after they had been together and he went to her house to stop her from leaving. Not knowing her family had enabled him to expunge them from his awareness and his conscience.

Wilson would certainly be both shocked and grateful to learn that House even owned a conscience, not that he intended to put it to much use.

As guilt threatened to overwhelm him, he sighed, resting his head back upon his pillow to stare at the ceiling. Is this how Wilson felt all the time? The guy had a full-access, backstage pass to guilt like no one else House had ever met. When he found out what had happened between House and Cameron, he'd probably feel guiltier for House than House himself.

What had Wilson told him last year? "Everything falls apart in the end. That's your worldview. The corollary, which you keep forgetting, is that you have to grab any chance for happiness."

Is that what he had just done? Had he recognized this moment as a chance, however brief, for happiness? When she first woke him up, House knew he could have pushed her away even though the fact that she had already aroused him made it that much more difficult. And now he was not sure if he had ever really wanted to push her away, as he had done for years.

Who was taking advantage of whom? It couldn't possibly be a mutual, emotional exchange, not in House's world. And yet, why had he felt compelled to tell her about Lydia? Did he already feel the emotional similarities between the two and their effects upon him and his heart?

Or perhaps he and Cameron simply needed each other, right now, right here. Needed the physical act of love to forget the pain of love they were both experiencing. Because House felt sure that Cameron, even now, loved Chase. She just didn't realize herself, how very much.

House raised his head to once again look down at Cameron's sleeping form. He noticed the slight flair of her nostrils as she inhaled and watched her breasts and shoulders rise with each breath. She seemed so small and fragile laying there, wrapped in his embrace. His mind wandered again to a night, so many years ago when he held someone else, someone just as small, just as fragile, just as beautiful. Here, and here alone, was the only place he could have such beauty, such perfection, such love. And he had taken it, stolen it, from someone else.

He turned his head away as the ache in his chest overwhelmed him. Cameron was simply a reminder of what he could never have for himself because he would never deserve it. He could only steal it for a few hours from someone else, someone that he would hurt just as much as the person with him now.

It was Cuddy at Michigan again. He knew he would never be worthy of her. But that didn't matter to him when he was young and willing to take a chance. He had been granted one passionate, glorious night with her before fate stepped in and he was expelled from school. His expulsion had separated them then and should have, rightly, separated them forever.

It was Stacey, whom he had loved and who had cruelly betrayed him, crippling him emotionally as well as physically. Then, years later, when they were reunited, it seemed they might be able to forgive each other and move forward. But he saw in her husband Mark's face, the pain of their deception and the will to do anything, anything at all, to make Stacey truly happy. Something he himself could never do. It was love for her that let her go, something she nor even Wilson ever saw or understood.

And it was Cuddy again. Now, when he finally understood who he wanted, it was all horribly too late. Cuddy no longer needed him and she was satisfied in her life and love with her daughter and Lucas.

And it was Cameron herself who had loved him, probably truly loved him for years but whom he could only steal for a little while to soothe his fractured heart and soul. She could never truly be his, just like Cuddy and Stacey would never truly be his. Because his love was an insidious thing, more infectious than any disease and much more debilitating. He could only make those he loved the same as him, miserable.

The tears fell freely as he choked back his sobs to try and control himself and not wake her. The realization that he could not make those he loved happy but only drag them down to his level of wretchedness threatened to squeeze the air from his lungs. Now he had dragged Cameron into that hell that he'd created for himself, the hell that waited just beyond the door to this room and that would begin as soon as they stepped from it.

Only now, they were together and they were safe. House turned to Cameron once more, longing for the temporary peace that she had given him. The tears still rolled down his cheeks as he began kissing her awake. His need had passed and was stilled. His desire had been awakened.

House wanted to be free from his pain, both emotional and physical. He wanted to love and be loved. And most of all, in this moment in time, he wanted Cameron. If all he could have was a few minutes of happiness he was going to seize it. The consequences were out there, beyond this room, and so far away from her eyes and her warm, loving arms.


	25. Chapter 25

**25 – ****But touch my tears with your lips. Touch my world with your fingertips. And we can have forever and we can love forever. Forever is our today." – "Who Wants to Live Forever" – Queen**

As Cameron lazily opened her eyes, House's lean face swam into view. He was slowly kissing her face, her neck, her lips. His hands began floating along her body, gently brushing back and forth across her stomach before tenderly caressing her breasts. She moaned both in pleasure and anticipation and as she did so, his tongue moved into her mouth, gently stroking the inside.

She noticed the tears that still glistened on his cheeks but she was soon too preoccupied by their second round of lovemaking to ask him about it. Neither did she wish to break the profound silence now reigning over them; a peace that cast a powerful spell over everything. There was palpable magic in this room, in this world they had created together.

The second binding of their bodies seemed to forever seal this enchantment. This time was characterized by even more sensitivity, more ardor on House's part. Cameron realized that all the times House had insinuated or boasted about being talented regarding his prowess in the bedroom was not bragging at all. If anything, he had underplayed his skills.

They did not fall asleep again afterwards but instead rested together, he reclining on his back and she laying her head against his chest, her blonde hair cascading across his body while she listened, mesmerized, to the beating of his heart.

House felt himself torn between asking Cameron her thoughts and simply basking in the stillness of their afterglow. He satisfied himself with the continuing serenity, gently stroking her hair and her face with his right hand while his left arm pulled her body close to his own. From this time forward, he knew he could never be close enough to her. The intolerable demon of loneliness could only be exorcised from inside her, while lying in her arms and planting unending kisses upon her full lips.

Cameron felt as if she had fallen into a dreamlike trance. She slowly opened and closed her eyes, feeling her head rise and fall against his chest with his every breath. She thought back through all the years she had known House, the few precious times that she had seen glimpses of his heart before. But today, she felt as if she saw into his very soul and experienced it fully for the very first time.

She had opened her heart to him and he had responded in kind. Their words fell so far short of their emotions and the connection between them that it was as if they had both been struck dumb and were the better for it. They communicated through their senses and actions alone, their lips, their hands, their eyes, their guttural, wordless sounds of pleasure, all bespoke of their joy at finding one other human soul, one other contact to cherish as a balm to their wounded psyches.

Was it something that would last? How far could they make it together? These were not questions that intruded upon them. They were not valid. They were not significant.

That two broken pieces, or in this case two broken people, had come together and created something whole and infinitely more beautiful was the only thing that mattered. Questions of time were of no account. They had already created an eternity that existed for only now.

For these two outcasts however, eternity could not last forever. While neither wanted to leave the room, to fly this universe that existed only within its boundaries, both knew that they could no longer stay nor avoid the outside world forever.

Their thoughts began to weigh heavily upon them. If either had spoken, the other would have been grateful for the respite from what had become a depressing silence and the isolation and fear they both felt once they had slipped each other's embrace.

But they did not speak as they dressed and gathered their meager belongings. When they were ready to go, House, even more than Cameron, felt the finality of it, that once they walked out the door, they might never be like this with one another again. Perhaps it was Cameron's irrepressible hopeful outlook that made her feel like everything would work out. Or more likely, it was House's self-knowledge that no matter what good might happen in his life, he would, more than likely and sooner rather than later, screw it the hell up.

Be that as it may, House felt the need to make their exit, not dramatic, but somehow memorable; a pleasant memory, as sweet as the recollection of being held in her arms would always be for him. Standing in front of the door, he suddenly turned to Cameron who was directly behind him. He looked deeply into her eyes and took her hand. Raising it to his lips, he kissed the back of her hand very gently, then turned it over and kissed her upturned palm.

Cameron cupped his face with her hand. She reached up and kissed him warmly on the cheek. He closed his eyes in a torrent of emotion and lightly kissed her in return. Then he took her hand again and brushed his face against it before turning his back to her to open the door.

She understood this gesture on his part, understood the finality of it. Wordlessly, she followed him out to the bike where they put on their helmets and mounted the motorcycle once more. They had left the ocean far behind them by the time she had finally run out of tears.


	26. Chapter 26

**26 – "****There's no chance for us. It's all decided for us. This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us." – "Who Wants to Live Forever" – Queen **

House took a more rambling state road back to Princeton. He relished the slower pace of the route, its twists and turns creating a rocking movement in his and Cameron's hips, a sweet metaphor to the harmony of their earlier lovemaking. The longer highway also allowed him to put off the inevitable, jealously keeping Cameron with him just a bit longer, no conversation, just their bodies silently moving as one over the drone of the bike's engine.

The thrumming of the bike's tires eating up the road was usually comforting to House in its familiarity. Yesterday, the sound seemed to beat in cadence with his heart, with so many of the different conflicted emotions he had carried with him and Cameron as they flew from their questions and problems to find a safe refuge together.

But now the bike's vibration began to nag at House. This time, it was only carrying them back; back to accept the burden of the loads they must pull, now made heavier by their choices of this morning; back to talk with the people who had hurt them and whom they had now hurt the most by those choices. The more distance they gained from the sea, the more these issues weighed on House's mind.

They were more than three-quarters of the way home when House pulled the bike into the parking lot of an old-fashioned, metal Jersey diner. They had eaten nothing since the night before, and House's stomach had started to feel like a tiger locked in a box car.

It was late morning and the diner was relatively quiet; too late for the breakfast crowd and too early for lunch. Cameron and House walked past the counter with its rotating glass dessert rack displaying thick, creamy cheesecakes, pies stuffed to overflowing with cherries and blueberries and long, chunky éclairs dripping with chocolate and cream. They followed the line of red-topped stools adjacent to the counter, choosing to sit at one of the red leather booths near the back.

A caricature of a waitress strode over, her orthopedic shoes squeaking in time with her snapping gum. She set two water glasses in front of them and handed them a couple of menus.

House grunted, "Coffee," and Cameron nodded her agreement. House had barely taken his reading glasses out of his pocket when the waitress returned, filled their mugs and bustled away again.

"Can't say I like the reverse-skunk hair thing she has going on," he said, referring to the waitress' bleached blonde hair with its wide stripe of black roots, "but she sure is fast."

"And the coffee is fresh," Cameron said.

The wheels in House's mind were turning. They were both avoiding talking about what had happened between them. There was a distinct awkwardness to their situation and the way they were reacting to one another which stood in sharp contrast to the way in which they had been at the inn and even on the bike. As much as he hated to, House decided to broach the subject.

"What are you going to tell the wombat?"

His words doused them both like being deluged with a bucket of cold ice water. Trust House to be the one to do the dousing Cameron thought.

"Please, don't call him that, not now," she said.

How else was House going to hide his emotions if not behind a mask of mocking and ridicule? Cameron was tying his hands and not in a good way.

The waitress returned, topped off their coffees, took their orders and squeaked and snapped away again.

"She just needs to put a couple of cymbals between her breasts and she'll be a regular one-woman band."

"I don't know what I'm going to say," Cameron spoke up, surprising him by answering his previous question.

"So . . . you ARE going to tell him?"

"I don't really have any choice, do I?"

"Of course you do," House said. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, well one part of him could believe it, the part that knew Cameron's high morality would not let her lie about her unfaithfulness to her husband. But why not? She had already made a choice, one that really should have been consummated before her marriage to Chase, so why couldn't she cover up her infidelity with just a few, well-chosen lies? Who was she trying to hurt and who was she trying to save?

"Are you purposely trying to hurt Chase?"

"Of course not," she said. "But things can't go back to the way they were. Things have changed, between Chase and me . . . between you and me."

"Why do you want to change things?" he said.

Cameron gave House a quizzical look. Could it be that he really didn't understand? Did he think that she had slept with him but wanted nothing more?

"What did this morning mean to you House? Am I just a one-time fling for you? Is that all what we did means to you?"

House shook his head. He didn't trust his tongue because he couldn't believe his ears. Could it be that Cameron's need had not just been from long curiosity? Was it not just transitory? Did she want more from him? Cameron was right here, right now, in front of him, laying her cards on the table. She was willing to do what even Stacey had been unable to do; to leave a man she loved for one she loved more.

Yet, was Cameron aware of the ramifications? Did she really know how much she still loved Chase?

"You love him you know," House said.

"No," she said quietly.

"You love him," he repeated before she could continue. "And you don't even know how much. You don't even know how much you need him either. He can give you what you want AND what you need. I can't."

"You mean you won't," she said, the silver tears beginning to sparkle in her eyes.

"I mean I CAN'T. Do you think I'm proud of that? Do you think that makes me happy? To know that I can't make YOU happy, that I can't make ANYONE happy? For God's sake, can't you see that Chase will at least TRY to make you happy? He can give you a home, a family, children."

House's voice had started to rise. He lowered it again. "Don't throw that away; don't throw away your whole life. Not on a twice-your-age, broken down, drug-addicted cripple."

Cameron studied House's face, etched so eloquently with his earnestness and fear and with the other element that he had hidden so well, for so many years, behind his mask of arrogance, his self-loathing.

"All this time," she said, "All these years I thought that you didn't think I was good enough for you, 'Gregory House, the brilliant doctor, the world-famous diagnostician.'" Cameron felt that there was suddenly not enough air in the room, not enough air on the planet. She gulped several times before she continued in a subdued voice.

"Now I find that it was you . . . , you were the one . . . you never thought you were good enough . . . for me." Her tears flowed copiously down her pink cheeks. She raised her eyes to his, finally understanding some of the sadness and terrible loneliness that lay behind them.

"How I loved you. How I still love you." Her hand reached toward his that was resting on the table. He promptly withdrew it.

The waitress returned, setting their orders in front of them.

"I'm sure my many character flaws will soon convince you otherwise." House shifted uncomfortably and looked out the window. "You were in such a hurry to get away from your murdering husband, you never even bothered to ask what prompted my escape."

Cameron inhaled sharply, her eyes widening in horror at her own self-absorption. Why had it never occurred to her to ask him? Their conversations had all focused on her problems with Chase. Why hadn't she thought to ask House what had been plaguing him that he would suddenly take off on his motorcycle in the middle of the work week? Perhaps she didn't deserve him after all.

"Oh stop it! Stop beating yourself up," House said, intuitively silencing the critical voice in her head. "I'm not particularly forthcoming anyway, or don't you know that about me by now?" He picked up his fork and began playing with his chocolate chip pancakes after pouring half a bottle of syrup on them.

She mimicked him with her spinach and cheese omelet, stabbing it several times with her fork before finally putting it into her mouth.

She swallowed and said, "What happened House?"

"Did you know that Cuddy's dating Lucas?"

Of all the subjects that he could have brought up, this one shocked her the most. Why did House care about who Cuddy was or wasn't dating? Unless . . .

"No I didn't know that. I've seen him around the hospital more often but I never made the connection."

"Well she is." He paused and then continued softly, "And good for her too. She needs someone reliable, someone who'll always be there for her and a good father to Rachel."

"Oh my God House, oh my God," was all she was finally able to say.

"Aren't you getting a little tired of comparing me to that deity?" he said. "I mean, I know it fits in the bedroom but in a diner?"

"You don't have to deny and deflect with me House. I think I understand."

"Do you? Do you really?" He was agitated again, speaking faster. "Well would you mind letting me in on that information please? 'Cause I don't understand at all."

Cameron felt as if she couldn't focus. She thought she understood him but now his increased anxiety suggested otherwise. Suddenly the seaside inn and their morning together seemed so far away. Had she dreamed everything? Was she going mad?

"So our night together, making love to me was just . . . I was just a stand in for Cuddy. I really don't mean anything to you at all, do I?" Cameron stopped, unable to go any further. She felt as if she had taken a shotgun blast to the chest, and all the lead pellets were dragging her down, squeezing the air from her lungs, the life from her heart.

For an instant, House's clear blue eyes registered something she could neither interpret nor understand. And then, as if a curtain had fallen, the look was gone. His face hardened as he answered, "Yes."

Cameron slid from the booth and ran to the bathroom. She knew she would be unable to keep her tears in check any longer and she refused to give House the satisfaction of seeing how much he had wounded her.

She stood over the sink sobbing violently. She realized that she was about to be sick and ran into the first stall. She retched until there was nothing left in her stomach, nothing but bile.

Strangely, her nausea stopped her panicked tears. She went back to the sink and looked at her swollen eyes and reddened face in the mirror. The vastly different visage she had seen from earlier this morning, refreshed, lovely, confident and determined seemed several lifetimes ago.

Why did she let House upset her like this? What possible reason could he have for . . . for . . .? Everything froze, her face, her body, her mind, time itself. Was she upset with House for being House or upset with herself for drawing the wrong conclusions?

And had she really drawn the wrong conclusions?

She thought back to their conversation of the night before, how he had tried to talk her out of sleeping with him even then. Was he protecting himself, or Chase, or her, or all of them? If he was simply substituting her for Cuddy, then why would he do that?

Like an accountant she began to itemize every word, every look, every expression. He was obviously out of his comfort zone and that had revealed the honesty of his emotions. He even told her about the woman he slept with in Mayfield, what was her name? Lydia. And he hadn't even told Wilson about her.

What had he mockingly said about himself? _"That he pushed the people he cared about most away."_

And when they were together this morning, was it just sex? She knew that it was not. She had seen his need and his desire but she had also seen his eyes. When she had looked into his eyes he hadn't flinched. House had looked back.

She had seen his mask fall to the ground and splinter into a thousand pieces. He had been looking at her, at Cameron, and his eyes were full of love. Everything, his mood, his kissing, his tenderness, his intimate reactions all were for her and her alone. He couldn't have faked that. And she couldn't have mistaken it for anything else.

She ran the cold water from the faucet and quickly rinsed her face. She was going back out there. She was going to face him. And she was finally going to get the truth out of him, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

She strode out of the restroom and down the long aisle to their booth. It was empty. She turned to check if House was coming from the restroom and her heart sank as her cursory view took in the empty parking lot.

The waitress walked up to Cameron, handing her the check. "Your boyfriend said you'd pay," she said in between snaps of her gum.

"Where'd he go?" Cameron said. "Did he say when he'd be back?"

"Didn't say nothin'. He just wanted me to give ya that," and she pointed to the check. The waitress frowned taking in Cameron's ruddy cheeks, red eyes and slumping shoulders. And then, more gently, she added, "Is there anything I can do?"

"No," Cameron said as she slid back down into the booth.

"Lemme getcha some more coffee, okay honey?" and she squeaked away.

Cameron looked at the check in her hands, mindlessly turning it over. There on the back, in House's familiar scrawl, was written a telephone number and underneath, the message "Dial-a-Wilson."


	27. Chapter 27

**27 – "Love has always been my shelter, for you it's been a storm. But for a while I thought we'd almost beat the rain." – "It Don't Bring You" – Mary Chapin Carpenter**

Wilson was not really surprised when he got the call from Cameron rather than House. He only half-expected to hear from his best friend and then, he knew it would only be to bail him out of jail or clean up some kind of mess.

When he found out that House had basically abandoned her at the diner, he knew that he was Cameron's chauffeur of last resort. She couldn't risk calling for a ride from any of her friends, they would drill her for explicit information all the way home. And of course, Chase was out of the question. Wilson was, once again, the safe choice. He counted on being counted on.

The ride back to PPTH was eerily quiet. Cameron asked that they go to the hospital rather than her condo so that she could collect her things from yesterday.

Wilson knew it was not his place to ask Cameron what had happened between her and House. Yet his need to protect House was overwhelming. Just when he was forming the right words to question her, she blurted out, "I seduced him."

"What?"

"It's all my fault. He tried to talk me out of it last night. Did everything he could to prevent it from happening. But then this morning . . . I . . . I."

Then Cameron began to tell him everything, the events from yesterday's motorcycle ride to her call for roadside assistance this morning. The fact that he was House's best friend was certainly the reason for Cameron's candor. Wilson was sure that she was not only unburdening herself emotionally. She was also gauging his reactions as a way to continue her offensive on 'Fort House.'

She was reminding him most strongly of the old Cameron, the one who imagined herself so in love with Gregory House that she was willing to do almost anything to attain her goal. Confronting him, arguing with him, baiting him, kissing him, blackmailing him into a proper date and even messing with Chase in an attempt to make him jealous, nothing had been left out of Cameron's bag of tricks in her attempts to bring Gregory House to heel and into her bed.

What she had never taken into consideration, though, was the absolute strength of will that House was capable of in his successful rebuffs to any and all of her strategies. It seemed the ultimate manipulator was immune to manipulations himself.

While he may have been resistant to her strategies, Wilson knew that House was not completely ignorant of her charms. House had always had a soft spot in his heart for Cameron. There just seemed to be too many insurmountable obstacles for the two of them to create a clear path for any romantic involvement.

Wilson sighed inwardly. Not purely for Chase's or Cameron's sake had Wilson held out some hope that House would refrain from being intimate with her. Cameron would be able to move on and Wilson was sure that she would, one day do so, just as Stacey had. And leave House completely crushed in her wake, just as Stacey had.

Stacey had always been a very selfish person from Wilson's perspective. This enabled her to withstand the heavy verbal assaults and mood swings of Gregory House, simply by being selfish enough to recognize when she needed to push him and when she needed to leave him alone. Selfish then, wasn't exactly the right word. More like self-preservationist. She was strong enough not to let House run roughshod over her.

But it had always been House who was the fragile one. That was proven that fateful day when Stacey had made possibly the most selfless decision of her entire life. She knew when she approved the unwanted surgery on House's infarcted leg that she was saving his life at the risk of losing him forever. She loved him enough to make that choice.

House had never seen it that way. His desires known, when he woke up from his coma to find a vast majority of his thigh muscle gone because of Stacey's decision, he felt completely betrayed. Maybe Stacey thought that with time, and her not insignificant abilities of persuasion being put to the matter, that House would come to see the prudence of her decision, maybe even thank her for saving his life.

She simply never bargained for his stubbornness and the infinite levels of hurt and betrayal that she had resurrected and inflicted. Perhaps in that way, she had never really known House at all.

Wilson remembered all of this as Cameron poured out her heart to him. He felt sure that she, like Stacey before her, was truly in love. But maybe, just maybe, she was more in love with an idea that she had created, that she needed House to be, than the man himself. And when she realized this, she would like Stacey, in a final self-interested act, leave him to his own devices, spurring another, and Wilson felt for sure, irrevocable downward spiral.

Wilson knew he couldn't allow that to happen. Not again. He knew that this time, after suffering so much, House would never recover from such a blow. Cameron had to be shaken, woken up to all the people she would hurt with her intended actions. And in particular, the man with whom she was, even now, starting to plan a future life together.

"If you're so sure that he's in love with you, then why did he leave you at the diner?" Wilson said.

"He's running away again. He's afraid of being hurt."

"And why is he so afraid that you'll be the one to hurt him?"

Cameron turned to look at Wilson who pretended to be very intent on the clear road in front of him. "Are you trying to make a point or are you just playing devil's advocate?"

"I find it interesting that you used the term 'devil's _advocate'_ because that's exactly who I was thinking of."

"You're talking about Stacey," she said, "And how much she hurt him."

Wilson's resolution was instantaneous. He had to be brutally honest with her to make her see the truth and the ramifications of her decisions.

"Cameron, after all he's been through, the torment, going to rehab last year, don't you think you're pushing your agenda on to him before seeing what he really wants?"

He briefly took his eyes off the road to stare at her, to bore into her heart and soul how much damage it was now within her power to possibly do.

She felt the sting of truth in his words and in the veracity of the expression in his eyes. Her own eyes began filling with tears again.

"You didn't even consider," she said, "That I really do love him, did you?"

"Yes I did," he said quickly before she could continue. "But that's not as important to me as how he feels and how he's going to react to all of this before he's had time to process it. House isn't like you, or even like me for that matter. He spent the first 49.9 years of his life pushing his feelings and the people he cared about away. And now suddenly he's being assaulted from every direction, his mind, his heart, his leg. He's always compartmentalized everything and now it's happening too fast, all at once."

Wilson took his right hand off the steering wheel and reached over to clasp Cameron's hand. "I'm just saying that maybe you need to wait and see how he feels, how he's going to react. And I think if you really love him as much as you say you do, you could give him that. Just a little time. That's all I'm trying to say."

He glanced over to see Cameron's tear-streaked face looking at him as she began to slowly nod her head.

"Okay," she whispered, feeling her heart tighten with the realization that right now she honestly didn't know what Gregory House would say and do at all.


	28. Chapter 28

**28 – "Now there's a whole lot of life to be unsure of, but there's one thing I can safely say I know. That of all the things that finally desert us, pride is always the last thing to go"** **– "It Don't Bring You" – Mary Chapin Carpenter**

House knew there wasn't much time. The diner wasn't far from PPTH and Wilson's driving, _damn him_, was usually way too fast.

Fortunately, no matter how fast Wilson's Beemer was, it couldn't hold a candle to the speed of the bike. House was a man on a mission. He became almost a blur weaving in and out between the cars, completely ignoring the blaring horns and raised fingers.

He just needed a bit of a head start, just a few precious minutes before Cameron came in and ruined her and Chase's lives. He had to stop her from doing that. He had to try.

Pulling into the parking lot, House recognized Chase's car several spaces away. But what if he had already been assigned a surgery? House knew he could be screwed if the timing wasn't right, if Cameron got to Chase before he did.

He parked the bike and grabbed his cane to limp quickly through the doors and into the elevator. He was so fast that he doubted even Cuddy with her advanced 'House tracking systems' had noticed him.

He was at his desk checking the hospital's surgery schedule on his computer when Foreman entered the adjacent conference room. Upon seeing his boss through the glass wall, he went over to the coffee machine, poured two cups and walked into House's office.

House took his familiar red mug that Foreman proffered and simply said, "So, do we have a real case today or not?"

"That's how you're going to play it? Like nothing's happened?"

"Uh, that's how I usually play it when nothing's happened."

"Don't you think you at least owe Chase an explanation . . .?"

"Chase, not you. And not even Chase for another 20 minutes if his surgery schedule is correct."

Foreman sighed heavily and shook his head. "I just can't believe you."

"Nice to know that even after all this time together, I can still surprise you."

House's office phone rang. After checking the caller ID, House put Wilson on speaker phone.

"Watch your language Wilson. I got Foreman standing right here."

Foreman rolled his eyes skyward. Before Wilson's familiar voice transmitted through the speaker, Chase's hurried footsteps could be heard approaching the office.

House barely had time to stand up when Chase came bursting through the door, shoved past Foreman and punched House clean on the jaw. Foreman grabbed Chase, holding his arms against his body, as House reeled backward, his body banging against the chair as he sprawled to the floor.

"You bastard!" Chase yelled, struggling against Foreman's hold. "You unbelievable bastard!"

"Well as I told your wife last night," House said as he sat up from where he landed, rubbing his sore jaw, "I think I've always been completely believable as a bastard."

"Start explaining House," Foreman said, "Or I'm gonna let him go."

"And do what? Are you both gonna open a can of 'whoop ass' on me?" House retorted. Then more quietly he said, pointing his now bruising chin forward, "Let him go."

"What?"

"Just let him go I said."

Foreman released Chase who immediately stopped trying to get to House. He was taken aback by House's new tack. He sullenly stood there, staring at his old boss, grinding his teeth.

House's clear blue eyes bored right through Chase's. This was going to be the performance of a lifetime.

"Your wife was a little upset with the apparent disregard you've recently shown for human life," House said. Chase guiltily looked away, just as House knew he would. He needed to slow Chase down, get him thinking again. And playing on Chase's guilt over Dibala's death and his subsequent marital problems was the ticket he employed.

"She needed some time to think and to clear her head away from you and all the crap that you've put her through. She felt like a motorcycle ride would be just the thing and I wasn't averse to her company. We rode to the Jersey shore, had to stay overnight because of the huge thunderstorm that rolled in and then I had Wilson pick her up this morning."

He paused and then said, "Now, can I stand back up or are you going to play 'Robbie the Australian boxing kangaroo' with me again?"

"And that's ALL that happened?" Chase said continuing to glower at him.

House felt something twist in the pit of his stomach but kept his features unreadable. "Well except for the fact that after the second or third or fifth glass of wine, or was it bottle, I may have made a pass at her."

Chase quickly took another step forward while Foreman instinctively threw out his arms in front of him.

"And you can't blame me for that either. If you didn't want men making passes at your wife then you shouldn't have married a beautiful woman. So that's your fault, not mine."

Chase looked House square in the eye. "And she . . . "

"Turned me down cold," House said, never wavering his sky blue gaze.

Chase continued to look menacingly toward him. "Why did you have Wilson pick her up?"

"After my social faux pas last night, she didn't want to ride back with me."

Chase slumped backward slightly and Foreman dropped his protective stance. Then Chase turned on his heel and walked out without another word. Foreman lingered a few moments more.

"House?" he said.

"Why don't you make yourself useful? Go find us a really interesting case."

Foreman continued to stand where he was. House glared at him.

"Go on, get out!" House said.

Foreman, completely dumbfounded into silence, nodded. As he turned and left House's office, his mind feverishly attempted to make sense of everything that had happened since yesterday. Something just wasn't right.

At least House was able to calm Chase. Maybe that's exactly what didn't feel right to Foreman. House was an instigator not a peacemaker.

He was interrupted in his musings by seeing Wilson walk off the elevator. He was going to try and talk to him but Wilson simply put up both his hands and said, "I wish I knew."

As Foreman stepped onto the elevator and the doors closed behind him, he was left to his own scattered thoughts once more.

Wilson opened the door to House's office not sure of what he was going to say. House looked up as Wilson walked in. He was bouncing his large tennis ball against the wall and catching it.

Wilson stood in front of House's desk, his hands on his hips. "Cameron and I heard everything," he said.

"So?"

"So? Whaddya mean so? Cameron told me everything. She was bursting at the seams to tell someone. She said SHE initiated everything. SHE seduced you. Are you trying to break them up? Do you want Cameron for yourself? But then why did you lie to Chase? Why did you tell him that YOU moved on Cameron and she turned you down? What are you planning to do?"

"Before I answer any of those questions, I have one for you and it's important."

Wilson sighed, "Don't think for one second that I'm going to let this drop." He waited. When it was obvious that the silence was going to stretch on, he spoke again, sighing heavily with defeat. Once again, he had lost House's verbal game of chicken. "What is it House?"

House stopped bouncing the ball and turned toward his friend. The expression on his face revealed how tired he was yet his eyes remained unfathomable.

"Can I move back in with you?"


	29. Chapter 29

**29 – "But listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness like a heartbeat drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost." – "Dreams" – Fleetwood Mac**

House's eyes followed Wilson as the latter turned and left his office. As soon as Wilson was out of his line of sight, he stood up and paced to the window. He gazed at his own fractured reflection, broken by the vertical blinds hanging in front of the glass.

What had he just done? He was no longer sure.

If this was a medical case, he would be so definite, resolute regarding procedure and treatment. But in his own life . . .

Of course Wilson had immediately agreed to let him stay at his condo again. There had been no doubt as to the outcome on that score.

But asking Wilson that question was admitting to . . . what? That he was a failure? House knew the emotional fallout from the last 24 hours would be severe. And he innately knew he would be unable to handle it alone. It was either move back in with Wilson or go back to taking Vicodin. Wilson and his condo were the obvious choice, really the only choice, for now anyway.

It seemed like after his release from Mayfield, his emotional life had gotten more confused rather than less so. Old wounds that had been dead and buried were open and festering once more. His shrink, Dr. Nolan, had said that the wounds had always been there and had been gangrenous for some time. Nolan also said that House would probably feel worse before he felt better.

Then what was the point? He'd told Nolan that his goal was to be happy. Why could he not achieve his goal? What was taking so long? Hadn't he changed, or at least hadn't he changed enough? While he believed that no one could change their true nature, couldn't a person still learn to deal with difficulties differently? Certainly things were changing around him. Why then was he still miserable?

His frenetic mind wandered again and when it finally settled, it settled on Cameron. He began to think back through their patchwork history.

He remembered standing in the hallway with her when she asked him if he liked her, a question he immediately answered in the negative, a bald-faced lie. Confronting her in the lab when he was thoroughly confounded, asking her _'why'_ she liked him. She was, after all, the equivalent of a stuffed animal made by grandma while he was anything but warm and fuzzy.

He thought back to their many arguments, she always advocating for the patient morally and ethically, if not always medically, the color rising to her cheeks, the fire blazing in her eyes.

No. He needed to stop.

But more memories came to him, hurried and unbidden. Standing in the hallway outside her apartment, practically begging her to come back to his team and she providing her ultimatum; she would only return if he took her out on a 'real' date. How he'd felt, both excited and nervous, like a fumbling schoolboy taking the homecoming queen to the prom.

He was nervous dressing for their date. He even took Cuddy's advice and wore the sky blue shirt because she had said "It almost makes you look nice" and he himself knew that it made his eyes reflect the blue, showing them to their best advantage.

He wanted to buy her flowers, to demonstrate his appreciation, to thank her for returning to him, to his team. No, for returning to _him_. Roses would not do for Cameron, too predictable, too run-of-the-mill. He'd bought her orchids, beautiful, mysterious, easily damaged, like the woman to whom he presented them.

Then he'd blown the evening by wrecking her dreams, by being methodically cruel and pushing her away. But it had been for her own good then . . . just as it was for her own good now. She needed to be with Chase, she needed anybody but him.

And what did he need? This morning he needed, no wanted, Cameron. Twenty-four hours ago, he had thought he needed Cuddy. Bad timing. She was already involved with Lucas. And she was still treating him sympathetically, as if he was so fragile that any adverse news would send him screaming back to Mayfield . . . or to Vicodin.

Cameron had been the only one who had not visited him when he was released, the only one not treating him with pity and kid gloves. And he respected her for it, cared for her because of it. Loved her because . . . no. He didn't love her, couldn't love her. He doubted he was even capable of that particular emotion any more, even though the fierce ache in his chest suggested otherwise.

It was simply bad timing with Cameron too. He had enough chances with Cuddy, enough chances with Cameron and he had blown them all. He had even fantasized about Cameron, years ago, as he had done with Cuddy last year.

When an angry gunman had shot him in both the stomach and the neck, House had dreamed that Cameron approached him, stood up to him, stood close to him. But that had all been the frantic ravings of his oxygen and blood-starved brain; just as last year's hallucination of his night with Cuddy had been the result of his Vicodin-overdosed, sleep-deprived brain.

Like pouring salt into an open wound, he continued to focus on Cameron. He needed to punish himself in some way. He needed to feel this pain now, the familiar pain, both welcome and abhorred.

He remembered the first time she kissed him, when she thought he had brain cancer and was trying to distract him in order to get a blood sample. He remembered the feel of her lips and tongue as he'd finally succumbed to the kiss. He remembered the tingling sensation and touching his own fingers to his lips as they continued to burn. Oh, how that kiss had lingered long after she'd left his office.

And thoughts of her this morning, moving in tandem, kissing, touching, her taste, her incredible smell. Then lying together, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as if it were truly beating for the first time, no longer hollow and empty but fluid and alive, beating for her.

He slammed his fist down on the bookshelf, scattering his thoughts momentarily with the shock to his hand. He needed a distraction, a constant white noise in his brain and in his heart to keep him from thinking about what he had lost and what he had sacrificed.

Had he truly sacrificed himself? Or had he sacrificed Cameron on the altar of his own fears? Had he, more than likely, taken happiness and thrown it away with both hands? Was it his fear that made him push her away or had it been like he told her in the diner, that he could never make her happy because he would never be good enough for her?

The truth was, he knew he would rather see her happy with someone else than pull her down with him into the pit of despair that was, that would perhaps always be, his existence.

It just made sense that Cameron go back to Chase. After all, how long could he possibly make her happy or stay off Vicodin? It was just a matter of time before he imploded again. Self-destruction was inherent in his nature. _That_ he could never change. Better to keep Cameron at arms' length or next time she might be destroyed in the blast.

He turned, limping greatly, back to his desk. He took his ibuprofen out of a drawer and popped a few before sitting down again, rubbing his aching leg absentmindedly.

House knew he had to get his old team back. That would be just the diversion he needed. He wanted everyone, Thirteen, Taub, Foreman and yes, even Chase and Cameron, clambering for their old positions while he, in the catbird seat, choosing who would stay and who would go.

But he wasn't sure that he could keep _her_ on his team. Hell, he wasn't even sure that he could work at the same hospital with her. How could he ever be close to her? How would he be able to smell her hair or hear her voice and not touch her, not taste her again?

He shook himself. This thinking was getting him nowhere and was only increasing the pain in his leg and the weight in his chest.

Within half an hour, Foreman returned with several folders from the ER, tossed them on House's desk and then silently left the office again. He knew his boss well enough to recognize when House was in a touchy mood and, like a hungry tiger in a plastic cage, should be left well-enough alone.

Ordinarily, he might engage in some aggravating behavior to try and set off House, to repay him for all of the bull-baiting that occurred on his account. But Foreman felt that House deserved a reprieve for the way he had handled Chase this morning, and therefore, said nothing. Foreman still didn't know all the details of the situation anyway and he decided it was better to hold back until he did.

House was quick to pick out a patient from the stack of folders that Foreman had brought him. The porn star with a "mystery" illness would serve his purpose in getting all of his team back. He already surmised what the guy probably had based on his symptoms but he was going to play his cards close to the vest on this one. He was going to let all his old fellows fall over themselves and each other to solve the case. And then he would decide who he would keep.

This latest production of his puppet theater would allow him to avoid Cameron. In fact, they would both be so busy, he with the manipulations of his many strings and she, with her outrage against the porn star's chosen profession, that they would probably have very little, if any contact at all. With her around less often, he could avoid thinking about her, erase her from his mind completely.

He'd done that with love before; surely he could do it again, especially since this situation was totally different. After all, he just couldn't be in love with Cameron. Could he?


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Short chapter but important to see Cameron's heart.

**30 – "****It was only one hour ago. It was all so different then. There's nothing yet has really sunk in. Looks like it always did, this flesh and bone. I grieve for you. You leave me, so hard to move on, still loving what's gone . . . Did I dream this belief? Or did I believe this dream?" – "I Grieve" – Peter Gabriel**

Cameron had heard everything on Wilson's cell phone, the entire altercation between her husband and House. And House had denied everything.

It was as if her entire existence had been denied. Everything that had happened between them since yesterday was nothing, vanished into thin air by House's carefully constructed remarks. That was why he had left her at the diner, he must have had a change of heart.

She knew this morning he loved her, was totally in love with her. But his old fears had reached up and dragged him back, back to the safety that only his loneliness would bring.

Yes, this morning House had loved her. Only he loved his old life more. He was making a preemptive strike to protect himself. He couldn't trust her enough to love him completely and continue to do so. And rather than wait for her to walk away, he was going to limp away from her first.

House had made his decision. He had chosen his future. And it didn't include her.

Cameron was grateful that she and Wilson had arrived at the hospital after the morning shift began. She was left alone in the locker room and in the women's shower room where she stood under the scalding water and wept until her skin pruned and she could no longer feel her arms or legs.

She wished that she could melt with the water and spiral down the drain. Or perhaps, dissolve into vapor and be carried with the shower's steam through the vents and taken on the wings of the wind over the hospital, way out over the dark blue ocean; far away from Princeton, far away from House, far away from the love, that even after everything that had happened, she still felt for the man. But there she stood under the cascading water, remaining mortal flesh and bone . . . and terrible aching heart.

Eventually she had to leave the veil of steam and hot liquid. She stepped out and toweled off, finally wrapping the towel around her wet hair. She put on a fresh set of scrubs and walked back into the locker room where Chase was seated with his back to her, obviously waiting.

As she walked in, he turned, his eyes expressive and his cheeks ruddy. "Tell me Allison," he said. "Tell me what you want and I'll do it. Anything, anything at all."

Cameron's eyes met Chase's only briefly and then she just stared at the floor. She felt hollow inside with only a small ember that smoldered within her, still burning for an emotional cripple that had tossed her back to the fates after giving her a glimpse of the one thing she really wanted more than anything else in the world.

And Chase had not even felt compelled to ask _her_ what had happened since yesterday, to get her side of the story. His trust in House was so complete that Chase took his words at face value. That was the strength of House's influence over her husband, over her, over all their lives.

It didn't even cross Cameron's troubled mind that Chase's lack of questions was also a reflection of how much he trusted his wife.

"We need to leave Princeton," she said. "We need to get away from . . . here, just you and I, immediately." She couldn't say his name, couldn't admit that he was the one that they had to get away from. Chase needed to escape House's authority and she, she needed to never again hear his voice or see the blue of his eyes.

"I'll go talk to Cuddy. I'll give her our notices effective immediately." Chase took her hand. He noticed the extreme redness and wrinkles that the long, hot shower had given her. "It'll be okay Allison, you know? We'll work this out. Together."

He turned and left her alone in the locker room once more where she didn't hesitate to begin packing her things, sobbing all the while.


	31. Chapter 31

**31 –** **"And though they did hurt me so bad, in the fear and alarm. You did not desert me, my brother(s) in arms**.**" – "Brothers in Arms" – Dire Straights**

Wilson knew it took every fiber of House's strength to ask that simple question. For House, it was tantamount to asking for help which was something so against his nature that Wilson immediately agreed. While House so obviously needed constant help and attention, to actually come out and ask for it was another matter entirely. House's needs had to be met but they were to be recognized only through intuition or osmosis.

Wilson felt a stab of guilt. House wanting to live with him again suggested that he was already faltering. Or perhaps it was a sign that House knew he was in for some rough emotional waters.

And while it was true that he wanted to protect House, Wilson also knew that his reasons for speaking to Cameron the way he'd done this morning hadn't been completely altruistic. Just as he was Cameron's last resort for a lift back to PPTH, he also recognized that the brunt of another House breakdown would fall on him and he would be left primarily alone to pick up the pieces. This was especially true now that Cuddy had both Lucas and a baby to deal with.

Even though he was the 'go to' guy for seemingly everyone's, particularly House's, emotional support, Wilson had grown tired of putting his life on hold, forever sacrificing for others. Ever since Amber's death, he had begun to recognize this aspect of his personality, subjugation to others, and how it was detrimental to the plans and dreams he himself might possess. He was, after all these years, beginning to resent House's influence and control over his life.

Yet when House asked him this last question, he nodded his head silently in answer, then turned and left House alone again in his office. He would speak to House later and get his side of the story, his perspective on the situation with Cameron. But now, he saw that his best friend was tired. Not only tired, but defeated.

Instead of heading directly to his own office, Wilson decided to check on a few patients. At least, that was what he consciously reasoned. Mostly he wanted some alone time to think.

What had House's lie to Chase really accomplished for House himself? As House's manipulations went, Wilson could see nothing that he had personally gained from it and that was odd in and of itself.

Having not gained anything, House had certainly lost Cameron. Judging by the expression on her face, she had been completely crushed after overhearing the whole of Chase and House's confrontation on the cell phone. She had suddenly turned and raced toward the staff locker rooms, tears already starting to her eyes.

But if it had just been sex for House, which certainly one could infer from his nonchalant conversation with Cameron's husband, then what reason would he have to hide that fact from Chase? Wouldn't it be more like House to rub it in Chase's face and then watch the fallout? Wilson knew that even though he was House's best friend, he really understood him very little.

As he was walking down yet another long corridor, he stopped in his tracks. Had House stepped back so that Chase could step up and fight for his marriage if he still wanted it? And wasn't Cameron now in a better position to make her decision based on what Chase was willing to do?

The only reason House would have done that for her would be . . . _good God._

What if Cameron hadn't been overemphasizing what had happened between them? What if Cuddy's rejection of him simply brought House's true feelings for Cameron to light?

Wilson didn't want to consider that possibility, for if that were true, then he had just wrecked his friend's best chance for happiness in a long while.

He couldn't have been wrong anyway. House had feelings for Cuddy. He couldn't possibly have transferred them to Cameron, not in this short space of time.

Or could Gregory House truly be in love with both women at the same time?


	32. Chapter 32

**32 – "What on earth is goin' on in my heart? Has it turned as cold as stone? Seems these days I don't feel anythin', 'less it cuts me right down to the bone." – "My Oh My" – David Gray**

Lisa Cuddy had made good headway with the papers in her inbox. Appointments had been made, entries to the computer system carried out and items had been tagged and filed to the appropriate departments. Overall, the morning had been busy and productive. It had been going much more smoothly than yesterday afternoon and the night before. And she was pleased.

Her office phone began to flash with an incoming call, the latest of many that morning. The caller ID displayed Lucas' cell phone number. Yesterday's events came rushing back to her consciousness along with a flood of mixed emotions.

Cuddy wasn't really sure she was ready to talk to Lucas just yet. She felt the uncomfortable barrier that she herself had placed between them last night, the same one that had spilled over into this morning. He had obviously felt it too. What other explanation could there be for his indifferent and abrupt early departure?

Although she was tentative to answer, she couldn't think of what to say to put him off, even for awhile longer. She also felt guilty for being the cause of this most recent rift between them. So, she picked up the receiver.

"Hey babe," his voice came through brightly.

"Hey hon, what's up?"

"Just wanted to know if you were free for lunch," Lucas replied.

"Well I was just going to grab a quick salad from the cafeteria and eat at my desk."

"You know, a doctor once told me that that's no good for the digestion," he said with a slight chuckle in his voice. "C'mon outside with me for a picnic lunch while the weather's still good. Winter will be here before you know it."

To Cuddy, Lucas sounded vastly transformed from this morning's head down, peck-on-the-cheek, quick exit boyfriend. Something had changed since then, something that had cheered him to the point where he seemed almost giddy.

Such a quick turnaround was simply out of character for him. Judging from his temperament this morning, he should still be sulking. His usual 'MO' in regards to that kind of behavior was spending at least a few days in a major league funk. She was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

"That's true," she said before deftly changing tack. "But I thought you were working on a case. Wasn't that why you had to leave early today?"

"Oh yeah . . . that. Well, it ended, ah, earlier than I expected and I thought, um, while I was in the area . . ."

The hesitation in his voice was not lost on her. For someone in the investigative profession, Lucas tended to falter when it came to thinking on his feet. She knew there was something he was not telling her but she also knew that a frontal assault was probably the last way to get him to open up about it. Maybe lunch wasn't such a bad idea after all. She could wait until he had a full stomach and his guard was down. Then she could lure his secret out of him.

"Lunch sounds fine," she said. "I can only spare about half an hour, if that's all right. Should I bring something from the cafeteria or are you going to supply the food?"

"I'm buying babe."

"Okay, I'll see you . . . "

"Have you spoken to Brenda yet?"

His question threw her off guard. "No, I've been cloistered away at my desk all morning finishing up some paperwork."

"Oh, well she said the whole hospital's been buzzing about House and . . . who was that attractive young doctor from the ER that's been back on his team since he got out of Mayfield?"

Cuddy knew darn well that Lucas remembered her name. She distinctly got the impression that Lucas was, as the British would say, 'winding her up.'

"Dr. Allison Cameron."

"Yeah, that's the one. Apparently he took off with her on the back of his motorcycle yesterday afternoon and no one saw them until this morning when they came in _separately_." Lucas put special emphasis on the 'separately.' "Almost like they were trying to hide something. And now the rumor is that her husband, Dr. Chase, punched House."

Cuddy didn't believe for one second that Brenda had told Lucas all of this. House was by no means Brenda's favorite person, but she certainly wouldn't have divulged all this information to Lucas, not when it included Cameron and Chase too.

Now that she thought about it, Cuddy had the distinct impression that Brenda was not a big fan of Lucas; she was always a little more stand-offish when he was around. Cuddy hadn't been consciously aware of Brenda's behavior before, but it came to her quite clearly now and emphasized an even deeper instinctual foreboding.

Why hadn't she seen it before? Was she simply making excuses in her head and in her heart for Lucas? What was she trying to avoid?

Brenda was down-to-earth, with a good head on her shoulders. She and Lisa Cuddy could not be called friends exactly but their relationship was beyond simply employee/employer. Cuddy respected Brenda's opinions and Brenda, likewise respected hers. She spoke to Cuddy honestly regarding issues at the hospital. She said she enjoyed working for her because Lisa was a strong woman who didn't succumb to the lure of becoming a tyrant; a line that could so easily be crossed in her position as Dean of Medicine.

Cuddy could tell that Brenda even liked House, or at least respected him. Sure, he could be a jerk sometimes. But more than once, Cuddy caught Brenda's smile following him as he walked away after engaging in some verbal repartee with her or Cuddy.

There was a kind of acknowledgment among many members of the staff, Brenda included, that House was a brilliant but naughty child and certain concessions had to be made. But more than anything else, House was open and honest, in fact often brutally so. There was a lot to respect about that. It was one aspect of his personality that gave House a sort of informal, part-of-the-family feeling.

There was no such sentiment with Lucas. Whenever he came to visit Lisa, Brenda would quickly excuse herself from Cuddy's office. Whenever he called, Brenda simply put the call through, no comment one way or the other. There was nothing blatant, no open hostility. But there was definitely a reserved, uneasy manner in his presence.

Cuddy made a mental note to talk to Brenda later. She suddenly wanted her unvarnished reaction to her relationship with Lucas; and what better opinion than from a trusted employee?

Cuddy frowned. So this was the reason Lucas left her house so early this morning; he'd been spying on her staff, more specifically, House. And this was the reason he was sounding so ecstatic now. He was obviously more than happy to drop this latest bombshell about House onto her. He must have surmised that her mood last night was brought about by a confrontation with House. And Lucas was, most certainly, gauging her reactions now.

She felt the heat rise to her face as she fought to maintain her composure. Lucas was jealous of House, no question about it. And he was purposely baiting her to see if he could get a rise out of her, to see if she would be jealous of Cameron.

The only problem for Cuddy in keeping a temperate voice was the fact that Lucas was right; she _was_ jealous. After their argument yesterday, House must have picked Cameron up on his motorcycle and left PPTH. That he was out joyriding with a young, pretty, smart woman who'd always had a crush on him while she spent most of yesterday crying set Cuddy off. Who knows where they went and what they were doing? And they only returned this morning? That was an awful lot of time to account for.

Cuddy's mind began to form a visual image of Cameron on the back of House's bike, her long blonde hair blown by the wind, her arms wrapped round his waist, her legs pressing round his hips . . . Cuddy felt a strange sinking feeling in her chest as if her heart was being squeezed by a giant fist. Other images came to mind, House and Cameron together, kissing . . . she needed to expunge the visuals from her brain. They were doing exactly what Lucas would suspect, making her burn with jealousy.

She knew that none of her emotions need be communicated to Lucas. Her hand gripped the phone's receiver tightly as she said in a calmer voice than she thought she could muster, "House told me he was thinking of taking some time off. I'm just surprised he came back today and didn't take the whole weekend."

Silence on the other end of the line registered Lucas' stunned reaction to her response. Finally, he said, "You _knew_ about House and Cameron?"

"What exactly are you driving at Lucas?"

"What do you mean?"

At this juncture, Cuddy opted for the frontal assault after all. "Is this why you left my bed so early this morning? So that you could dig up gossip about my staff? Who are you trying to serve with that? Certainly not me."

Lucas' voice came through the phone high-pitched and tinny with anger. "Someone should tell you what's going on right under your nose, what _he's_ up to. But if it involves _him_, you just turn a blind eye. He doesn't give a damn about you Lisa. Why else would he upset you and then spend the night with another man's wife?"

Surprisingly, for some reason it seemed the angrier she got, the steadier her voice became. "Last time I checked, I was not dating House. Last time I checked, I was dating a man who lied to me this morning about why he needed an early start and instead came to MY hospital to dig up dirt about MY employees."

Lucas realized far too late that he had hit a nerve . . . and not the one he was aiming for. Cuddy was not only Dean of Medicine but she was also mother hen to everyone who worked at PPTH. That included and meant especially, House. Instead of engendering an angry response about House's activities, her defenses had risen to the fore and now _he_ was the one caught in Lisa's crosshairs.

His tone changed from harsh to whining. "Lise, look, I just meant that you need to watch your back with the guy. He's . . ."

"And now you seem to think I'm not a good judge of character? Need I remind you that I've known Gregory House longer and been his friend way before you met him or we met each other?"

"I just think you should know what's going on with your staff."

"I disagree. What happens in their personal lives, as long as it does not affect this hospital, is none of my concern." She said this even though she did not mean it.

"I'm sorry Lisa. I just meant . . . I just don't want you to get hurt."

Cuddy heard her office's outer doors opening and saw Chase striding through.

"Lucas, I have a meeting right now so I have to hang up. But you will kindly stop snooping around my hospital and my staff and that includes House."

"Okay, okay." He was sounding like a chastised schoolboy. "Are we still on for lunch?"

"I lost my appetite." And then because she didn't want to end the conversation on a sour note, she said, "I'll see you tonight at home."

"Okay. Goodbye." Lucas' voice sounded morose.

Cuddy hung up the phone and motioned for Chase, who had hesitated at the second set of doors, to come in.

On the other end of the line, Lucas closed his cell phone and scratched his head. The dialogue had been going well until Lisa got all 'Dean of Medicine, administrator-y' on him.

Oh well. He had just played his first card too early. He did find out a few things anyway. But the fact that his girlfriend was still obviously harboring feelings for House brought him no great pleasure. And now she had forbidden him to do any more probing at PPTH.

Lucas smiled a crooked grin. He could keep his promise to Lisa. He had already dug up something very interesting on Dr. Robert Chase. It just required a little more checking but what he had already uncovered promised to be the mother lode.

Oh yes, he was going to hold onto that little gem until just the right moment. At that time, he knew, there would be nothing that Lisa or anyone else would be able to do before he was able to make the world collapse right onto the head of Gregory House.


	33. Chapter 33

**33 – "So don't yield to the fortunes you sometimes see as fate. It may have a new perspective on a different day. And if you don't give up and don't give in, you may just be okay." – "The Living Years" – Mike and the Mechanics**

It was not a little surprising to Chase when Cuddy accepted his and Cameron's resignations without question. He found it regrettable and confusing as well.

Regrettable in that Chase would have liked some sort of acknowledgement of the work that he and Cameron had accomplished during their collective time at Princeton Plainsboro. Not that he wanted Cuddy to beg them to stay but . . . then again, maybe he would have liked her to beg; at least just a little.

This brought him to the confusing part. Taken on their qualifications alone, the Dean of Medicine should have been more than anxious to have them both remain in her employ. Yet, her reaction seemed to be exactly the reverse, an eagerness to show both of these qualified doctors the door as soon as possible.

But Chase knew, whenever something or someone came in direct opposition to House, Cuddy would invariably take whatever action was necessary to protect her hospital's prized diagnostician.

Chase recalled asking Cuddy last year, point blank, if she was in love with House. Cuddy avoided his gaze and then brushed the question aside saying, "That is an even more ridiculous question." Her refusal to give him a definitive answer was much more telling than any other response she may have been able to stutter out.

After that, it seemed that many of the scenarios that had played out during his fellowship and association with the surgical staff finally began to fall into place. Why House was allowed so much free rein, why he had been hired on at PPTH in the first place and why, after so many hassles, both internally and legally, Lisa Cuddy had never fired him.

Upon reflection, everything else began to make sense as well; House and Cuddy's sexually charged banter, their confrontations, the energy emanating between them whenever the other was in the room, even when they weren't speaking, or what was more often the case, shouting at one another. It was like some kind of dance between the head of diagnostics and the Dean of Medicine; their actions indicating their confidence that they were the only two people in the world who could hear the music and follow the steps.

In reality then, Cuddy was not protecting her hospital's asset but her interests alone. She would have, by the time he visited her office, certainly heard the rumors of House and his wife's motorcycle excursion. Jealousy would have reared its ugly head and made Cuddy more amenable to removing any competition she might have for House's attention as soon as possible. Chase began to wonder how long Lisa Cuddy had been in love with House and how long she had denied it, even to herself.

But was Allison a realistic threat for House's affections? Was House even capable of having or displaying affection for another human being? House had ample opportunity years ago when Cameron literally threw herself at him. And House had rebuffed her at every turn.

Chase believed House when he'd said that nothing had happened between him and Cameron. Wouldn't House, being House, have lorded it over him if something _had_ happened?

And House had been right; it was Chase's murder of Dibala and subsequent actions that had caused his wife to run away. Didn't she just need the time to absorb the shocking truth of what he'd done? Didn't she just need perspective over their deteriorating situation before she wholeheartedly made the effort to salvage their crumbling marriage? Now that he was onboard to that goal as well, didn't they have a decent chance?

While Chase wasn't sure that leaving Princeton was the answer for them, if that was what his wife desired, then he was going to give her that. He would do anything it took to save their relationship.

But why was he willing to do anything? Hadn't he already fought every step of the way for their relationship? How much more did he have to prove himself? And wasn't his fight, more often than not, _against_ Allison herself?

Chase reflected that every turning point in his long affair with Cameron had been decided or controlled by her. The first time they slept together, she had been high on drugs. She had also recently been rejected by House.

Stacey, House's previous love, had returned to Princeton and House had begun to ardently pursue her once again. The fact that she was married to another man had no bearing on House's actions.

It did, however, affect Cameron. She seemed more desperate and edgy than ever before. That was why she ended up experimenting with a patient's drugs. And that was why she had made her "booty call" to Chase that night. Had he simply been a stand-in for the absentee House?

Chase felt the thrill of a shiver running down the length of his spine.

He thought back to when he and Cameron started sleeping together on a regular basis. She was the one to suggest it in the first place, initiating her seduction with the memorable phrase, "You're the one person at work that I have the least danger of falling in love with." Chase remembered comparing her logic with the convenience of frozen pizza.

Was that all he was to Allison; a quick-frozen, convenient substitute for the hot, delicious sausage and pepperoni real thing?

It had been Chase who first decided that he wanted more than just sex, that he wanted a real relationship with Cameron. She promptly broke up with him when he shared his feelings about it. When he wanted to get engaged, she avoided and stalled him. When he wanted to get married, she threw up every road block in their path, not the least of which was the issue of her holding on to her dead husband's sperm. She had never mentioned that particular white elephant, but then in a few short weeks before they were to be married, she told him about it. It made him feel that Allison had been hedging her bets in the relationship the whole time they had been together.

All these years, all this time, HE had _always_ been the pursuer. He had always wanted the relationship with her more than she did with him. He had always loved her when she . . .

Had she _ever_ loved him?

The more Chase thought, the more questions came into his mind; questions that he had no answers for, questions for which he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

He began to see the fatal flaw in his logic. He began to trust his wife less and less.

Yet surprisingly, he found himself trusting House more and more.

House was obstinate, arrogant, a pain in the ass to work for, or to be around. But he was honest, brutally so, to the point where it was almost a fault.

And for all of his shortcomings and idiosyncrasies, House was a good person. Hadn't he proven, time and again, that he wasn't impervious to emotion, that he actually did care, for his patients and especially for the people in his life?

It had been House who provided the solution to the Dibala situation, keeping Chase out of jail and saving both he and Foreman's medical careers. And that was not the first time House had come to Chase's rescue.

When Chase's feelings over his father's passing made him make a series of mistakes that caused a patient's death, House had stepped in, lied for him, covered for him, talked some sense into him. House saved him professionally and emotionally. In one fell swoop, House became his new, surrogate father. Chase would forever thereafter, seek House's approval, always challenge him, always care about him in a way that went far beyond House merely acting as his boss. He was by no means a perfect father, but House ended up being, for Chase, a good father, certainly a better father than he had ever known.

That was when the realization struck him. Chase genuinely cared very deeply for House. And that was why he had believed House's story this morning; because he had wanted to.

Suddenly, he no longer wanted to leave Princeton Plainsboro. He no longer wanted to leave behind the associations and the friendships he had made there. He no longer wanted to abandon the man who had been truly, the only father he had ever known.

Leaving Princeton at this point, felt to him more like running away. So then what was making Allison so anxious to leave?

This morning House had said that he had made a pass at Cameron. Surely he would not lie about that. In his experience, the only time House lied was to protect himself . . . or those he truly cared about.

Slowly he began to turn around House's confession in his mind. What if it had been Cameron who had actually made a pass at House? Would he have refused her, as he had done in the past? Reject her, not only to protect his own interests, but the feelings of Chase and Cameron as well?

Or would he have given in? Without Vicodin, House was in more physical pain than ever and he had always been an emotionally tortured soul. Chase was one of the few people who saw that, recognized that. His own mother had killed herself with alcohol and in many ways, Chase had seen frightening parallels between his mother and House's own self-destructive nature.

Might House have made the human choice and slept with Allison? Chase knew that House actively denied his human side but his recent emotional vulnerability had made it almost impossible to hide that facet of his personality, even from himself.

Chase had stumbled into unfamiliar territory. His wife, who was the moral superior to anyone he knew, had, quite swiftly, embarked on a spectacular fall from grace. But in direct opposition to the perceived deceitfulness of his wife, Chase was beginning to put more faith in the words and deeds of his eccentric, mercurial boss.

He realized, in his heart of hearts, that whether Allison and House had slept together was no longer important to him. Chase was not even sure if it was any of his business. Like one of House's whiteboard solutions, it was simply a symptom of the much larger disease that had infected his life and his marriage.

In a strange way, a very strange way Chase acknowledged, he was almost sorry if House hadn't slept with Allison. Maybe with her, House would be able to find some of what he so desperately needed, a temporary peace and love.

Cameron had always been good in bed. But Chase knew that there was always a part of herself that she held back from him. He intuitively knew also, that she would not hesitate to fully share that part with House, whom she had probably, always truly loved, even more than himself, even more than her first husband.

He walked back toward House's office, his earlier jealous outburst seeming inconsequential now. If indeed his marriage was crumbling, it was not House's fault. Neither was it any fault of his own if his wife had always harbored feelings for House.

Allison stood just outside the glass conference room doors. She was waiting for him, waiting so that they could walk in together and announce their resignations.

In that precious moment, Chase's conscience suddenly felt free for the first time in a long time regarding the breakdown of his marriage. While he still obsessed over the Dibala situation and felt the weight of his actions there still, he felt as if House's motorcycle had not only freed Allison to make her own decisions, but freed him as well to see the path before him, to once again make the right choices for his own future.

And with that knowledge came the understanding that if Allison didn't love him, that if he was second in her heart to House, he was no longer willing to settle for that. His instinct and his confidence told him he deserved so much more.

This new comprehension emboldened him, emboldened his heart. And now, Chase was becoming more determined than ever to stay in Princeton and stay with House, to ride out the journey of his marriage to Cameron to its inevitable conclusion.

A/N: I'm posting this chapter in honor of Hugh Laurie's birthday, tomorrow, June 11.

Actually, this is one of the chapters that I thought would come easily but was anything but. I've written and re-written and edited this thing to death.

Sorry about the wait but even though this is kind of a connecting chapter, I wanted the emotional support structure to be correct.

Anyway, always happy for you to read and review. Thanks for reading!

P.S. You may recognize the song quote. The writer penned it for his father after his father passed away. You'll see the connections after reading the chapter.


	34. Chapter 34

**34 – "And now I wish you only roses, baby, without the thorns, and I hope your dreams are always within reach. And I wish you shelter, baby, from all your storms. They scared you, but they never seemed to teach that I can't bring you love if you don't love. And I can't bring you time if you ain't got time. And I can't bring you strength, baby, if you ain't strong. And I can't bring you kindness if you ain't kind." – "It Don't Bring You" – Mary Chapin Carpenter**

Like a chalk drawing left out in the rain, time had all run together for Cameron following her motorcycle ride with House. Over a week had passed and she had spent that week avoiding him for the most part.

Physically avoiding House wasn't that difficult. Well, yes it was if she was being honest with herself. Their brief union had, instead of expunging him from her heart and getting her foolish crush out of her system, made her want him even more, like a junkie needing her next fix.

When she closed her eyes, she saw him moving over her, his gorgeous blue eyes burning a path through her soul. She remembered his touch, his intoxicating smell, his raspy, masculine moaning as their bodies came together.

All of these sensations and memories she wore like a scarlet letter from the time she got up in the morning until the time she laid her head on her pillow at night. She continued keeping her distance from Chase and she was thankful that he had not pushed her to be intimate.

Cameron knew the only way to rid House from her veins was to go cold-turkey and steer clear of him completely. But focusing on the patient and admonishing him for his seedy profession in pornography were not enough. The only way to totally detox from her House fixation was to go into rehab as soon as possible.

She was desperate to get away from Princeton Plainsboro. She felt that she could never banish House from her head and heart when she was always at risk of seeing him in the hallways or hearing his voice chiding the team for their latest, "idiotic" diagnosis.

Chase, however, continued to drag his feet. After initially agreeing to leave the hospital with her, he was now using every excuse to sit in on differentials and run tests on the patient. There was no obvious reason for him to do so, the case that House had chosen was clearly just a ruse, a successful one, to manipulate his old team to come back and work for him.

But Chase was not immune to House's manipulations. He was tied to their old boss just as surely as she was and Cameron began to wonder if she and Chase had both chosen House over their marriage for their own selfish reasons.

Even last year, when she and Chase were having pre-wedding troubles, she had run back to House. Cameron told herself at the time that it was simply a matter of her thinking process, needing to bounce ideas off of House as he himself did using his white board. But now she knew that it was much more than that.

House had been right last year. Cameron had always wanted him to end her relationship with Chase. If he had said or done anything in that direction then she would have accomplished two things. The first, would be that she could take the coward's way out and blame the break-up, and any subsequent unhappiness on her or Chase's part on House acting as the third party. She could still comfortably play the victim and not the source of the problem.

The second, and more important goal would be that, of course, if House were to meddle in her love life then it could only mean one thing; that he really did care for her, wanted her for himself, perhaps even prove that he was in love with her.

But House had never played into that particular game, no matter how hard she tried to drag him into it. Only now, after he had kicked his Vicodin habit and was trying to heal himself after his stay at Mayfield, now that she was married and it was too late for all of them, she had finally maneuvered him into making love to her.

Yes, she had succeeded in bringing this particular dream to its fruition. And simultaneously, she had failed utterly. She had to finally admit that she had used Chase all of these years. She'd hurt him. Perhaps she'd even hurt House if he felt half of what she was going through. Even after everything, she seriously suspected that underneath it all, House was indeed in pain over her.

And most depressingly, she had let herself down. She had to admit to herself that her marriage was a sham, that she had purposely placed herself in a position to fail. And by finally getting the man that she had loved all this time into her bed, Cameron had created the perfect storm of elements to lose him forever.

Cameron made her decision before she entered the locker room to clear out her things. Whether Chase accompanied her no longer mattered. She was leaving Princeton, and House and this time, it was for good.

Chase was already in the locker room as she walked in. The look on his face told her all she needed to know. He had chosen to stay with House, to stay on the team. And he tried to talk his wife into staying too. She turned and left without saying anything to Chase.

This time she was not going to shrink away, this time she was going to talk to him. She was going to place the blame for everything exactly where it needed to be, on House's shoulders.

Cameron's footsteps reverberated down the vacant corridor, the beats keeping time with the pounding of her empty heart. She could see through the glass doors that House was just packing up and that he was alone. Good, the solitude would not make what she had to say any easier but it would at least give her ample opportunity to say what she needed to get off her chest.

When Cameron entered his office, House smiled to himself. Even after all that had happened between them, he thought he was still able to influence her into asking for her old job back.

As soon as he looked up, his slight smile faded faster than long shadows in the noonday sun. The expression on her face held so many emotions but none of them hinted at supplication. For the first time in a long while, he could not gauge her reactions. Perhaps because he was so unsure of his own.

"I was in love with you," Cameron said. "I was an idiot."

House raised his eyes to look at her full in the face for the first time since she'd entered his office. He had a desperate need to see her, to see into her eyes. She was lit by the only light still on in his office, the desk lamp. The shadows of early evening softened the lines of her face and reminded him of what he'd woken up to that early morning by the sea.

At that memory, his heart leapt into his throat. Cameron had obviously come here to place blame and to say goodbye. And now he saw the folly of that decision. He needed her to stay.

While her face was shaded, Cameron's eyes reflected the single light in the room. They glowed, not with love as they had done that morning not so long ago. Now they smoldered with resentment, hatred and pain. House had extinguished the love that had shone there but a week ago.

There was no going back to that time; to the togetherness they shared by the ocean. He had irrevocably closed the book on that chapter just as surely as Cameron had finally closed her heart to him.

He wanted to scream at her, make her listen, make her angry, take it all back. But it was too late, far too late. And he was finally getting what he deserved. House was seeing the terrible price that had to be paid, not only by him, but in the haunted look Cameron now carried in her eyes. A look that he had never seen before but he instinctively knew would now be a fixture as permanent to her as salt in the ocean.

As soon as she entered his office this last evening, she was on the attack. Cameron blamed House for everything, not only for the ultimate failure of her marriage to Chase but for orchestrating Dibala's murder as well.

House felt this last was unjustified, he argued that he'd only taught Chase and all of his fellows to think for themselves. Cameron disagreed. House taught them to think like him, with insensitivity toward the patient. And on any questions of importance, House had trained them to acquiesce to his decisions, whether stated or implied.

"Right, that's exactly how I tricked _you_ into sleeping with me," House said. They were alone for the first time since they had been together that night at the inn.

Something behind Cameron's eyes fell. This was the final cut, the last method of lashing out at her by bringing up her initiation of events that day in order to make her feel guilty and ashamed.

"You taught _all_ of your fellows well," she said quietly. "Manipulation, lying, emotional blackmail. Consequences be damned as long as you get what you want. Thank you for reminding me."

It was something behind House's eyes that fell this time. So he truly _had_ meant nothing to Cameron. At some point in time, he had simply become her pet project, to figure out, to try and fix, and move on. He had opened his heart to her and when he had, she'd found it lacking.

Fearing his eyes would betray too much, he dropped them again to the floor.

Cameron finished the speech she had prepared in her head. She justified the parallels she saw between Chase and House. Finally she summed up her feelings.

"I feel sorry for you both because there's no going back for either of you."

There were few tears this time as Cameron put forth her hand in a silent request for a civil goodbye. House was too overcome with emotion to look at her or acknowledge her departure with a handshake. Cameron stepped forward, standing on tip-toe to place one last kiss on his stubbled cheek. And then, without another word, she turned and left his office.

House was stunned. It took him a moment before he realized he needed to go after her. He needed to explain himself, how he felt. He needed her to stay. By the time he limped after her, she was already down the hall. He could never catch her. He was left in her wake with nothing but the memory of her voice and her touch and the last scent of her perfume still drifting in the antiseptic hospital air.

Cameron had been able to keep it together in front of House but as soon as she got to her car in the parking lot, she began sobbing as she hadn't done since the death of her first husband. When she finally composed herself, she drove home.

She had already finished packing her bags by the time Chase came home. He sat there, trance-like and wooden as she gave him a last, one-armed hug and took her leave of him.

They recognized that, in their own ways, they had both chosen House over their marriage. That choice meant that, for Chase, he needed to stay. Cameron's decision necessitated her trying to get as much distance between her and House as quickly as possible.

Cameron arrived at Newark Airport in plenty of time to catch her flight to Boston. This meant there was time for her to think. Too many thoughts filled her brain and too many emotions surged in her stomach. She didn't feel well.

As she wheeled her luggage over to check in, she fainted. An airline employee and another traveler helped her to sit up and gave her water. She gratefully drank two cups before standing up, checking her luggage and buying a bottled water from a nearby vendor.

She was embarrassed that she'd let herself get dehydrated enough to pass out. Small wonder though as she'd spent so much of the last week crying. Crying for herself, crying for Chase and their broken marriage but mostly crying for the shell of a person that was Gregory House.

His reaction to her departure showed that he was no longer capable of experiencing real, human emotion. He compensated by manipulating the people in his life. And now, Cameron had become a master at manipulation too.

She had manipulated Chase into becoming involved with her, eventually marrying her. Cameron knew now that she had to take the lion's share of responsibility in both the false starts and failure of her marriage. She had never loved Chase, at least not in the way he loved her.

And she had somehow, someway manipulated the puppet master himself. She had finally gotten House into her bed. He was everything she had wanted, had dreamed about and more. But once returned to his native environment at the hospital, he was more aloof and shut down than before, if that was possible.

So in the end, sleeping with House had become a terrible mistake. Cameron knew that she would one day heal from the fiasco that was her few months' marriage to Chase. She was uncertain however, that her heart would ever heal from the intrusion that had been Gregory House.

The art of manipulation had not been the only thing she'd learned from him. She'd also honed the ability of hiding her most heartfelt emotions. She was grateful for this last lesson, for judging by the blank expression on his face as she kissed him, she'd obviously convinced House that she was no longer in love with him when nothing could be further from the truth.


	35. Chapter 35

**35 – "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone?" – "They Paved Paradise" – Counting Crows**

House was sitting at his desk, framing yes or no questions silently in his head, then shaking his Magic 8-Ball and rolling it over to read the answer. It had been a long time since he'd felt this low.

Still reeling from Cameron's sudden and unexpected departure, House had thrown himself into his work. He'd seen more patients in the last six weeks than he had in the last six months. But the constant activity kept him moving, kept him from thinking, kept him from feeling. He recalled a quote from Theodore Roosevelt, "Black care rarely sits behind a rider whose pace is quick enough."

So he had doubled up on his cases, causing his newly reorganized team to get little sleep as they ran test after test, all hours of the day and night.

Cuddy had neither complimented nor queried the unexpected voluntary increase in House's workload. But this brought him no comfort either. She was obviously avoiding him again after his deduction that she was seeing Lucas.

While she was dodging him directly, she was also no longer making any attempt at hiding her new boy toy. House was treated to seeing them in the hallway almost every morning, kissing goodbye. Oftentimes, Lucas would stop by Cuddy's office around noon for lunch and kiss her hello. He'd pick her up from work most evenings and give her another kiss hello or a kiss meaning "I missed you" or perhaps "I can't wait to get you home so we can go to bed and bury my face in your full, round . . ."

In short, House had begun torturing himself again and he reasoned the only release would be for him to break up Lucas and Cuddy's relationship.

And it wasn't that he simply needed another project to keep his mind off his own emotions. House honestly believed that Lucas was wrong for Cuddy. It wasn't that he was too young, if Cuddy wanted to play the cougar, there was nothing wrong in that. Her looks and her wit would certainly turn on most any man, regardless of age.

Lucas was, however, very far from Cuddy's equal and that's what House objected to. The possibility that he still harbored deep-seated feelings for her did not even enter into his equation.

As part of his plan to break up the annoying constantly kissing couple, House had finagled a Thanksgiving dinner invite to Cuddy's sister's house only to discover, after a three-hour drive, that he'd been set up. Cuddy and Lucas were enjoying their holiday together with friends and House had shown up to an empty home and a sitter who offered him nothing but a cold turkey sandwich before he had to make the three-hour drive back to Princeton.

His lips had barely been able to contain the agony that a six-hour round trip had produced on his throbbing right leg.

After his success in bringing back most of his team, House had to admit to himself that he'd taken it for granted that he could easily break Cuddy's bond with Lucas. That over-confidence had certainly come back to bite him in the ass. Now his attempts to waylay the relationship seemed only to make the couple draw closer together, against their common enemy. They were now talking about buying a condo and moving in together. And his scheming had earned him a big "I told you so" from Wilson to boot.

But enduring possibly the worst Thanksgiving holiday of his life wasn't the only thing bearing down on House. First, his mother had called, seemingly to wish him a happy Thanksgiving but primarily to inform him that she would be coming to spend some of the Christmas holidays. This uncharacteristic insistence on a trip to Princeton had House frantically attempting to decipher the real motives behind his mother's imminent visit. Unfortunately, the only answers that came to mind had nothing whatsoever to do with any positive intentions on Blythe House's part.

Second, House's nose was still sore from another, more recent assault from Chase. This time, Chase used the punch as a ruse to keep the rest of the team from asking questions about his split with Cameron. After all was said and done regarding what had happened between he and Cameron, House had finally decided that two punches to his face from Chase's fist was, to his mind, getting off fairly easy.

Lastly, Wilson had risked his life by donating a lobe of his liver to his cancer friend, Tucker. The possible loss of Wilson scared House more than he could say, especially to Wilson himself.

What was he doing risking his life for that self-important jerk? The guy played Wilson like a cheap, tin harp. He knew Wilson would feel guilty and he just worked off of that guilt. Didn't Wilson realize . . . ?

But how much could House really complain about Wilson when he'd done similar things to him in the past. Wilson had a real savior complex. He was more than willing to build, drag and then be crucified on his own cross if he thought it might help someone else. That someone else had been House, more times than he could count.

This time was different, however. This time could have gotten him killed. House would never have asked him to do that, even though he had risked his life two years ago to save Wilson's girlfriend, Amber.

House shuddered. He tried not to think about Amber very much as she was the principal player in his mad hallucinations last year. Nolan had suggested that House had residual guilt over her death and how it had hurt Wilson. He also said that perhaps House had some leftover anger as well because of Wilson's petition of House to risk his own life for hers.

That was different. Wilson deserved to be happy. House should do everything in his power to help Wilson, save him, most often from himself. It was right that he risk his life for Wilson and Wilson not do the same for him. He didn't deserve that, he could never deserve that.

But House was having a hard time overcoming the dread associated with his near loss and his underlying anxiety that, no matter what and no matter how much he tried to change, he would still end up alone.

Wilson had only partially guessed House's quandary and trepidation. He'd tried to make up for it by outbidding Cuddy on the condo that she wanted for herself and Lucas. While he was proud of Wilson for taking baby steps toward a real display of anger, House was still depressed at the amalgamation of almost all of his nightmares and his inability to do anything to change it.

And his leg! The ibuprofen wasn't even taking the edge off any more. Vicodin had been calling to him in his dreams and had even started its siren's call while he was awake. But all House had to do was remember being strapped to a bed in Mayfield with the sounds of an inhuman, tortured screaming assailing his ears and the final, horrible realization that the screaming was coming from his own mouth, to counteract those ideas. But he needed to do something about the escalation of his pain and he needed to do it soon.

Like Vicodin, House's other addiction had come to the forefront as well. But no matter how much he wanted to, needed to, he couldn't bring himself to call for a hooker; not after Lydia and then Cameron.

House realized that he was aching from something far greater than just a physical need. Yes, he needed sex but he also needed to fill that longing with someone that wanted that physical release from him as well. Anonymous sex or call-girl business sex only made him feel lonelier. He wanted relationship sex. He wanted to be held by someone who truly cared about him. He wanted to make the other person feel as good as they made him feel. He wanted to be understood.

Unfortunately, relationship sex came with a price; the baggage of an actual relationship. And House knew there was no way he could sustain a relationship in the long run. So he was stuck feeling more lonely and isolated than ever before.

House shook the Magic 8-Ball again.

"Will I be able to make the beast with two backs soon?" he said quietly.

"_Reply hazy, try again,"_ was the toy's reply.

House posed his question again.

"_Concentrate and ask again."_

House angrily shook the sphere. "Will I ever get Cuddy?" He hadn't meant to say that. He had just blurted it out.

"_My sources say no."_

House sat holding the toy, blinking slowly at it. "Is Cuddy in love with Lucas?"

"_Signs point to yes."_

"Stupid toy," House muttered and rolled it across his desk.


	36. Chapter 36

**36 – "This life has its victories but its defeats tear so viciously" – "This Street, That Man, This Life" – The Cowboy Junkies**

House was the proverbial overloaded camel. One more straw, just one, and he was in grave danger of collapsing.

That straw was not long in coming. The set up came when he correctly diagnosed an undercover cop with Hughes-Stovin. Unfortunately, by the time House made the diagnosis, the auto-immune disease was in its advanced stages and the patient died within a day. Even though he had solved the puzzle, he still had trouble reconciling himself with the cop's death.

The final straw came while he and his team were scrambling to diagnose a multi-symptomatic woman. The patient flatlined and they were unable to resuscitate her. The fact that the autopsy provided the answer gave no one satisfaction, least of all House.

The patient was a young mother and at autopsy was found to be in the early stages of her third pregnancy. As she and her husband had been using birth control, no one connected her various symptoms to that particular diagnosis.

During the initial search of her home, Taub and Thirteen had found a diaphragm in the patient's nightstand. It was only later that Thirteen checked the diaphragm for leaks, discovering enough to render the device useless.

They questioned the husband further and House reached the conclusion that the wife had decided not to wait to get pregnant again. Regrettably, the pregnancy caused complications leading to her death. The patient left behind her husband and two young children.

Although everyone agreed that the circumstances leading to her death could not have been foreseen, House found no solace in this fact. His team members all went their own ways to find means of consolation while House continued sitting alone in his darkened office, pouring himself glass after glass from the bottle he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.

"_Everybody lies,"_ House thought to himself as he poured another drink. _"First the wife and now me saying that there was nothing we could have done."_

Terrible stabbing pains gripped his right thigh. He took the ibuprofen out of his desk for the third time in two hours, popped a couple in his mouth and washed it down with the bourbon. The pills and the booze were not helping. If anything, his pain was getting worse.

House took his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial. It rang several times before he was tossed into voicemail.

"_Hi, you've reached James Wilson . . ."_ House snapped the phone shut before the message finished. Then he opened his phone again and speed dialed a different number.

"_Hello, you've reached Dr. James Wilson, head of oncology at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I'm sorry I can't take your call right now, but if you'll leave your name, number and the time you called, then I'll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please dial my pager number . . ._

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," House said. "C'mon Wilson, cut to the chase." He groaned and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his thigh vigorously.

"_. . . and I'll contact you immediately. Thank you."_ A protracted beep sounded, letting House know that Wilson hadn't checked his professional number in awhile.

"Wilson! What's wrong with you? How many little cancer kids have left you voicemails before mine?" Just then, a wave of intense pain rolled through him and he moaned loudly into the still open phone line.

"Wilson," House said in a low voice. "Where are you? The pain's bad. I need to . . ." What did he need? What could Wilson do except hold his hand, murmuring platitudes? He needed something more. He needed for his pain and his thoughts and everything to go away, just go away and leave him alone, alone like he would always be. The way he was meant to be.

"Never mind," House breathed into the phone and closed it. He was tired; tired of fighting the pain and anguish and depression and loneliness, tired of fighting for his patients, tired of everything and everyone; tired of life itself.

House stood up, weaving considerably and put on his jacket. He grabbed his keys and pulled on his helmet.

Before long, Gregory House was speeding down the road on his motorcycle, the dark night enfolding him in her loving arms.


	37. Chapter 37

Thanks to everyone who's still reading and posting. Really means a lot!This chapter came up sort of out of the blue. Perhaps I kept focusing on several posters comments that they couldn't wait to see this dialogue. At any rate, did not intend to write it at first or make you wait to see what happens to House (is something going to "happen"? Oh no!) but all of a sudden, this dialogue came into my head and I had to write it down. Of course it's been edited and I'm still not entirely happy with it but here it is anyway. I will answer people's posts after I post this latest chapter.Please keep reading and posting! Sincere thanks!

**37 ****– ****I just might have a problem that you'd understand . . . Lean on me when you're not strong, and I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on" – "Lean on Me" – Bill Withers**

Cuddy had been putting off the conversation for weeks. The conversation she knew she needed to have, the one she desperately wanted, even though she kept trying to deny that she wanted it, even to herself.

True, she was using the excuse that she'd become distracted recently. But she refused to take the entirety of the blame for that onto her own shoulders. House's mood swings, which affected his work schedule, had become almost unmanageable.

Cuddy had been trying to physically distance herself from House. But the more she avoided him, the more she felt herself and her thoughts inexorably drawn to him.

She longed to have him storm into her office, his eyes blazing like a welder's arc, demanding she give into him and his most recent insane diagnosis or procedure. She missed the particular timbre of his voice as he raised it to argue his point. And the way that he moved, so fluid, with almost a dancer's grace nearly making the observer nullify the visual of his jarring, limping stride.

When Cuddy had caught glimpses of House moving down the hallway or hobbling through the lobby and clinic, there was no question he was in tremendous pain. His gait and therefore his pain levels had taken a huge upswing since Cameron's abrupt departure. Her exit had also prompted House's change in work habits as well.

Cuddy was trying to avoid making a connection between the two events. But even with her formidable abilities to dismiss the obvious, she gave way to her baser nature, more often than not, particularly in her relations with House.

That was why she had played that trick on him over Thanksgiving. Cuddy felt her jealousy rear its ugly head when she discovered the most recent correlations between Cameron and House. So she struck at House, in such a petty and mean-spirited way that afterwards, she couldn't even recognize herself as the instigator of the whole situation.

Lucas was certainly taking some of the credit for it but Cuddy had to admit that the thing had really been her idea and required her engineering to pull it off. No, she was entirely to blame and she was still mentally beating herself up for the entire affair, especially since House had been physically affected, probably from the result of a six-hour drive cramping his already injured leg.

But how dare House choose someone over her and then expect her to be waiting in the wings when that other woman left and he had no one else to turn to? Did he think she was destined to be his runner-up?

Upon further contemplation however, Cuddy remembered that House had come to her office first, had even invited her to dinner before he discovered her pre-existing relationship with Lucas. It was only after that that he had taken off on his bike with Cameron. Could it be that Cameron was the afterthought and not herself?

And there had never been any evidence that anything had happened between them. After all, if something had, then why did Cameron leave and not Chase? Wouldn't it be the reverse if Cameron and House had anything to hide? And could she really blame House if something _had_ happened? Cameron had always tried to manipulate a relationship with House and she was the one that was married, not him. He was not seeing anyone at all as far as Cuddy knew. It was simply a matter of wanting House to remain alone and unchanged when really, everything had already changed for him and everyone around him.

It had only been after the Thanksgiving debacle, that House had buried himself in his work. He'd left her and Lucas alone; even Lucas had said that House had, in his own way, accepted them. Why else had he ceased and desisted from any attacks on that front?

So now here she was again, wondering what was going on with her prize diagnostician even though she had a boyfriend and baby waiting for her at home. Not only had House's pain worsened, but he had also just lost two patients, the last one had not been diagnosed yet when she had flat-lined.

As much as he denied and deflected, Cuddy knew that the losses had been serious blows, not to his ego, but to his psyche, and maybe even to his heart. So here she was back to square one, focusing not on the people who were waiting for her at home while she worked late, but on the dour physician who had just left her hospital with his motorcycle helmet and backpack in one hand and his cane in the other, limping heavily and in obvious pain.

Nurse Brenda had been working late too and Cuddy noticed her through the glass office doors, closing her file folders as Cuddy was turning off her own desk lamp.

Brenda had noticed House's exaggerated limp as well when he passed by and the look on her face registered something, almost indefinable. It was not pity but there was a seriousness to her gaze and a sweetness that looked like compassion.

Just as Brenda began to put on her coat, the intercom on the desk buzzed for her attention. She knew she could not pretend to ignore it. Dr. Cuddy would see her standing nearby from her own office. Still, she hesitated. Something within her felt that this was one summons she would rather not answer.

But Brenda had chosen nursing as her profession for a very good reason. She was not one to turn away from someone else's need. So she steeled herself for the axe she felt was sure to fall and walked into Cuddy's office.

She stuck her head just inside the glass doors saying, "I was just getting ready to go home. Did you need something?"

"Yes, please Brenda. Do you have a few minutes before you have to go?"

Brenda's first inclination was to respond in the negative. But as she searched her boss's face, she decided again to face the formidable Lisa Cuddy who stood there, her emotions registering all too clearly on her lovely visage. So she walked into the office and sat down in the chair opposite Cuddy's desk.

Cuddy reached over and turned her desk lamp back on. Obviously, her request for Brenda's presence had been a last minute decision on her part. Intrigued even more by the fact that her boss, the ultimate planner, was doing something off schedule, Brenda leaned a bit more forward in the office chair, her brunette ponytail slipping from her back to hang over her left shoulder.

"Brenda, I want to ask you something. Not as a boss, but as a . . ."

"Friend?" Brenda finished Cuddy's statement for her.

"Yes," Cuddy said, sounding relieved. Now that she was in her office talking to this woman, she began to wonder why she had put off this particular conversation for so long. Brenda was, typical to her nature, taking things in stride. She was non-judgmental and honest. But then, that was exactly why Cuddy had postponed her talk with Brenda. When it came right down to it, she was afraid of hearing the truth.

Brenda noticed the change of emotions that swept over Dr. Cuddy. This wasn't easy for her, opening up to someone else. How analogous she was at times to Dr. House, particularly in regards to their over-protectiveness towards anything personal in their lives.

That was by no means their only similarity however. Brenda often felt as if she had a front row seat to the grand parade that was PPTH and more specifically, the sideshow of doctors House and Cuddy. How often had she seen one of them looking toward the other, a plethora of emotions written across the face, in the movements, words and actions?

House was slightly better at hiding his feelings but Brenda had played witness often enough, particularly recently, to the true nature of his thoughts regarding Lisa Cuddy. No matter his mask, his eyes betrayed him as they strayed toward her office in the hope of finding her there, the expression of anguish behind the blue when he spied Cuddy with Lucas and the look of longing that followed the couple, long after they'd left the hospital.

As for Lisa Cuddy, her looks of attentiveness and caring that she generously bestowed upon her chief diagnostician differed in intensity and emotion from the looks that she gave her current boyfriend. And Brenda had long ago formed a theory as to the why.

Brenda smiled encouragingly at her boss. "You wanted to talk to me about something that isn't work-related, something personal?"

Cuddy let out a breath that she hadn't realized she was holding. "Yes. Thank you for coming right to the point. I think I would have taken much longer."

"Well, I'm assuming that you will want to get home to hug Rachel at some point in the next week."

Cuddy laughed. "Do you really think I would have spent that much time . . ."

"Beating about the bush? It is a distinct possibility." Brenda smiled at Cuddy again. "What did you want to ask me?"

"I want to know why you don't like Lucas Douglas, my boyfriend."

Brenda gasped. She thought she had hidden her feelings better than that. But now that Lisa had called her on it, there was no reason to deny how she felt. There was, however, plenty of reasons to apologize.

"I'm terribly sorry if I've acted in any way unprofessional . . ."

Cuddy waved her hand absentmindedly. "Not at all."

" . . . or in any way that has caused you personal pain," Brenda bright eyes met Cuddy's storm clouded ones as she said, "then I am truly sorry."

Cuddy walked round to the front of her desk to stand directly before Brenda. She slumped backward, resting against the lip on the desktop. She looked down at her feet and when her eyes met Brenda's again, they were edged with silver tears.

"No," she said softly. "If anyone has been hurting me, it's only been myself."

Brenda reached forward, taking Cuddy's hand in her own. The smile on her lips had turned more melancholy but her eyes stayed on Cuddy's face, studying her.

"You are a scientist," Brenda said. "You need facts and figures and data to back up any theories you may have." She sighed. "Even though I'm a nurse, I'm not as rigidly scientific. I go with heartfelt reactions 99.9% of the time. And I'm better off for it."

"And the .1% of the time?"

"Always, always turns out bad for me," Brenda replied. "When was the last time you followed your heart Lisa?"

Cuddy's face froze, she jerked her hand from Brenda's grasp before she even realized she'd done it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean . . . you just surprised me."

"Isn't that why you wanted to talk to me? Because you know I'll be honest with you? Even if you don't want to hear it?"

Cuddy was standing upright. "I guess so. You still caught me off guard though."

"If you really need the unvarnished truth to shake some sense into you, why aren't you talking to Dr. House?" Brenda said while looking at Cuddy quite sagely.

Cuddy felt all the blood drain from her face. "I'm not talking to him about Lucas."

"Why not? You met Lucas through him, didn't you? Aren't they friends, in a way? Some sort of strange way, I would imagine since it involves House."

Cuddy leaned back against her desk once more. She looked to her shoes again as if they had the answers she sought. "I just can't talk to him about this."

A smile of deep understanding crossed Brenda's face. "Lisa, I've known you a long time. We've been friends for a long time. Yes?"

"Yes," Cuddy said. "I consider you a good friend."

"Then you should know me well enough by now to realize I'm not in the habit of giving advice to people. That's your mother's job. And that'll be your job once Rachel is old enough."

Cuddy thought of her daughter and smiled.

"All I can say about Lucas is that if you need to ask me about your relationship with him then you yourself recognize that you are having doubts. If you didn't, then you wouldn't need to ask someone else how they feel about him. You're questioning your own feelings about him, aren't you?"

Lisa Cuddy slowly raised her eyes, the light of comprehension swirling within the midst of the blue, green and grey, still edged with silver tears.

Brenda stood up. "And now, I'm going to go back on my own word and give you some advice. Follow your heart Lisa. It will never steer you wrong."

"But my daughter. I've only been doing . . ."

"What you thought was best for her. Why do you think that what's best for her mother is divergent from what's best for Rachel? Don't you know that if you're happy then she'll reflect that? Don't you realize what an important lesson you can teach Rachel? That when she's old enough, she too should follow her heart?"

Brenda stepped forward and gave Lisa a quick hug. "I know you're only trying to make everyone else happy Lisa. That's the administrator in you, the negotiator. But who's trying to make you happy? If you're not doing it, then no one else will."

She turned to go. "I take that back. Maybe there's one other person who would seriously try to make you happy."

"Brenda," Cuddy said. "You can't just make an enigmatic statement like that and go home and leave me here."

Brenda had reached the office's double doors. She placed one hand on the door but turned her head to reply.

"Enigmatic? That's like a puzzle, isn't it?" She tilted her head slightly, looking at Cuddy from the corners of her eyes. "Gee, I wonder who around here is really good at solving puzzles?" With a slight smile and a last reassuring wink at Cuddy, Brenda opened the door, breezing through it into the lobby and out into the chilly evening.


	38. Chapter 38

This is a short chapter but I just gave you a very long one so . . .

This is another special chapter in my heart as it was written awhile ago. And it also deals with what House is going through right now. Please enjoy reading and post a review. Thanks.

**38 – "Confused and rejected, despised and alone, I kiss isolation on its fevered brow" – "The Web" – Marillion**

The air in the darkened apartment felt cool to House's face as he took off his helmet and stepped inside. He had turned down the heat once he had decided to live with Wilson again so he was not uncomfortable leaving his jacket on.

He flipped the light switch and looked around. The first thing his eyes were drawn to was the piano, covered with a large white sheet to save it from dust. He limped over to the instrument and like a matador flourishing his cape, flung the sheet off in one smooth stroke, arching it high over his head and throwing it behind him.

He promptly sat down on the bench and began playing, bits of various pieces at first, then whole compositions as he allowed his feelings and the music to surge through him, sailing through his mind, flowing through his arms and released, finally, through his dancing fingertips. The music was bitter yet sweet, profane yet divine. God how he had missed this instrument! How the piano resonated so deeply with and through him, as if they were one. The joy and the agony of expressing himself through the music that filled his apartment and that filled him as well, if only while he was playing, only for that moment in time.

As the last notes faded from hearing, he felt the wetness on his cheeks. He hadn't even realized he'd been crying, so possessed was he by the familiar sound of the keys. House knew that he had cried more since his release from Mayfield than in the whole of the first 50 years of his life.

When was this going to end? How long would he have to suffer? At least with a terminal illness, you could estimate the patient's time until the end. It seemed to him now that the limited time allotted in those cases was a blessing, could somehow make the subject's suffering bearable because at least there was a definite end to it.

But to House, there was no time limit. His torture might well go on until the end of his life, whenever that would be. And that thought was making his current circumstances completely unendurable.

He almost screamed aloud at the next flare up from his leg. House realized he was sweating but not from exertion. He was experiencing the cold sweat of fear, that this pain in his right leg was as great as when it initially had the blood clot. The idea that he had another infarction in the same leg was staggeringly profound; the pain felt just as bad and if it was, indeed, a recurrence, there would be no saving the leg this time. It would have to be immediately amputated at the hip.

He stood up with a great deal of difficulty and slowly limped over to his closet. Upon opening the door, the shoe rack holding his plethora of running shoes met his pain-filled vision. His shaking hand reached up and took the shoe on the top far right out of its holder and turned it over. The expected amber, white-capped bottle fell into his upturned palm.

House shook the bottle, satisfied by its muted rattle that it was nearly full. He looked at the bottle of Vicodin in his outstretched hand for some time, his old enemy, his old friend. He knew this was all life would allow him, temporary comfort, temporary relief, just like the music until it stopped. Just like his diagnostic cases until one went south. Just like Cuddy who had rejected him. And just like Cameron who had left him.

With that last thought, he popped the lid and raised the open bottle to his lips, not lowering it until every pill slid down his throat and he felt the empty bottle in his grasp.


	39. Chapter 39

Again, this chapter was written awhile ago. Increasing the tension just a couple of notches.

While the chapter was written before, I often times have trouble finding musical lyrics to fit. Last chapter the lyrics were from long ago. I didn't want to make you wait too long for this update but I didn't have lyrics until just this morning when I suddenly had a House-like epiphany. I hope you find them fitting as well as I do.

Please read and review. Thanks.

**39 – "****Who's gonna pick you up when you fall? Who's gonna hang it up when you call . . . Who's gonna plug their ears when you scream?" – "Drive" – The Cars**

Wilson's car careened through the darkened streets of Princeton, running the third stoplight in a row. House's stilted message on his cell phone had convinced him of his best friend's distress but he had hoped that House might head back to the condo. He had gone there first but after lingering for a few minutes for House to show up, Wilson realized that his disposition was simply not made for sitting and waiting. He drove back out into the night and after checking a few of House's regular haunts he called Cuddy to see if House had returned to Princeton Plainsboro.

All that succeeded in doing was to put Cuddy on the alert because, of course, House hadn't returned to the hospital. Wilson apologized profusely for bothering her and told her not to worry but he was sure that she had picked up on the panic in his voice, thus transferring some of his nerves to her. Combining his nerves with her imagination was a volatile mixture and made Wilson even more desperate to find House, not only for House's and his own sake, but now for the overly concerned Cuddy as well.

When he hung up with Cuddy, a sudden idea came to Wilson. He hoped beyond hope that he was wrong, that all of House's stash had been disposed of. But he had to see for himself, had to try every avenue before admitting defeat.

Through his windshield, he recognized House's motorcycle parked down the street from the last intersection. When he pulled up and parked across the street from House's old apartment, he saw Cuddy already walking away from her car.

"Cuddy! What are you doing here?" he shouted to her as he opened his car door.

Cuddy turned at the sound of Wilson's voice and stopped to wait for him to cross the street.

"What do you mean, what am I doing here?" she said, barely holding her temper. "You call me like that, like a worried mother hen and you don't think I need to know . . . don't you think I even care? Do you think I'm that unfeeling?"

Wilson gestured with both hands in front of him, trying to quell her and his own fears. "Let's just save this conversation for later, shall we? I see a light on in his apartment. Let's see what's going on."

He could tell that Cuddy was not entirely satisfied on this point but her concern for House made her turn away from her anger toward Wilson, for the moment anyway. They both hoped that perhaps House had only returned home to check on things, maybe play his piano which had been left at 221 Baker Street.

They walked silently to the door together and with a sinking feeling in the pit of both of their stomachs, heard no piano music coming from inside. Wilson knocked but there was no answer. He knocked again and called, "House?" but still no response from inside the apartment.

Wilson was grateful that he had never relinquished the spare key that House had given him when he had temporarily lived here several years ago. He unlocked and opened the door, calling again, "House?"

The reply came from down the hall, weak but still audible, "In here." Wilson strode quickly down the hall, Cuddy right on his heels.

"Where are you? In the bedroom?" Wilson said.

"Bathroom," House replied.

Wilson pushed the half-open door to reveal House sitting on the floor next to the toilet. "House, are you okay? You didn't sound . . ."

"I slipped," House said.

"You fell? Did you faint? Are you hurt?"

"No moron, off the wagon." As he said this last, House tossed the empty bottle of Vicodin that he still held in his hand to Wilson's feet.

Wilson bent over and picked up the bottle, revealing Cuddy standing just behind him. He could see the anger flare up in his friend's eyes.

"What is SHE doing here?" House said, his voice quavering with anger and more than a tinge of something else.

Cuddy looked at the bottle in Wilson's hand. She heatedly met House's gaze. "How many pills did you take?"

House looked at her belligerently. His voice, while lowered, still sounded dangerous. "What are you doing here?"

"She's a friend. She was concerned."

"Answer my question House, how many did you take?"

House looked away. "It was a full scrip."

"Oh my God," Wilson said. "How long ago? How much entered your bloodstream?" He walked over to House and started to put his arms under him to lift him off the floor. "We've got to get you to the hospital right away."

"Calm down Wilson," House said, sliding away from his grasp, "I purged the Vicodin 10 seconds after I took them."

"You're sure?" Cuddy asked.

House looked at her again, seemingly no longer angry, and nodded. "Came in here right after I swallowed them and stuck my finger down my throat. Happy? You two do-gooders want to leave me alone now?"

"Yeah, that's just what we'll do after you tried to kill yourself," Wilson said, his voice sounding harsh. But he immediately softened when House looked up at him.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," House said.

"Then why did you take the whole bottle?" Cuddy interjected.

House answered, so quietly that even Wilson who stood next to him could barely hear him. "Because I couldn't take it anymore . . . the pain." House cast his eyes to the floor while Wilson and Cuddy exchanged a long, meaningful look.

"Let's get you up off this cold bathroom floor first," said Wilson, "then we can debate the implications behind downing an ENTIRE bottle of Vicodin."

"No!" House said. He looked earnestly again at Wilson who immediately understood his silent plea.

Wilson turned to Cuddy and said, "Would you mind getting the bag out of my car?" He reached into his pocket and tossed her his car keys.

Cuddy understood as well. House didn't want her to see how much pain he was in. She nodded her head. "I'll be right back," she said as she turned to go.

"You know Wilson, that's no ass, that's a space station," House said, loudly enough that the retreating Cuddy could hear him. Then more quietly, he said to Wilson, "I don't think the leg will be able to support my weight."

"Well I can't just leave you here. Put your arm around my shoulders and take your cane in the other hand."

Just as Cuddy was closing the front door, she heard an agonized shriek, as if an animal had been mortally wounded. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and her free hand flew to her lips to ensure her silence, her basic need to echo and join that cry with one of her own.

She blinked back her tears and walked across the street to Wilson's car to retrieve his bag. She took her time, allowing Wilson to help House as much as possible before the awkwardness of her returned presence. House and Wilson were like an old married couple sometimes, each giving the other what was needed away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world.

When she walked back into the apartment, Wilson was coming out of the bedroom, his worry etched deeply into his handsome features.

"How is he?" Cuddy asked quietly.

"I've never seen him this bad," Wilson said. "I may have some things in the bag that might take the edge off but I'm going to need to go back to the hospital to get some serious medicine."

"And you're sure, I mean, you know he's not faking." She was sorry she asked the question as soon as it passed her lips. There was no faking the pain in that primal scream she had heard before.

Wilson's features clouded with anger and frustration. "No!"

"I'm sorry," she said quickly before he could say anything more. "I know he's not. Would you like me to stay here, look after him, while you go get your things from Princeton Plainsboro?"

"Don't you have to get home?"

"I already called my sitter and asked her to stay late."

"When did you . . ."

"Right after you called me," Cuddy said. "I've known you long enough to know when you're not faking either. That concern in your voice seeped through the phone. I thought maybe I could help."

"You have helped," Wilson said. And then he surprised her by leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek. "I'll take you up on your offer to babysit him then. I won't be long."

He walked around her and opened the door. "And Cuddy, thank you. You're a good friend." Wilson was gone before she could think of a reply.


	40. Chapter 40

**40 – "****Who's gonna hold you down when you shake? Who's gonna come around when you break?" – "Drive" – The Cars**

Cuddy made her way down the hallway, momentarily stopping at the thermostat to adjust the temperature in the apartment. The radiators made quiet gurgling sounds as the heat kicked in and she opened the door to House's bedroom.

The small lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, golden glow about the room. House lay on his back in the bed. His eyes were squinted shut and his jaw clenched in an effort, Cuddy knew, to withstand yet another wave of intense pain. She walked over to the bed, sat down on it and placed Wilson's bag on her lap, rummaging through it for anything that could help ease the pain in House's leg.

The worst of it must have passed because House opened his eyes. They were red and his complexion, ashen and moist from the beads of sweat that materialized on his forehead.

"Where's Wilson?" he asked.

"Went back to the hospital to get you some heavy duty pain killers."

"God, I love that man. If only he weren't into all that kinky stuff," House said before groaning and twisting his mouth at the onset of another attack. He began to shiver and his teeth started chattering.

"Where do you keep your extra blankets?"

"H-all c-c-closet."

Cuddy jumped up, spilling the bag and its contents to the floor and grabbed three blankets from the closet. She dashed back into the bedroom to see House curled on his side, still shivering. His eyes were rolling and he was breathing hard like he had just run a marathon.

Cuddy unfolded each blanket and wrapped it carefully round the quaking House. The last one she folded round his feet and body, finally tucking it up to just beneath his chin. After awhile, his shaking seemed to subside and he opened his eyes, giving her a feeble smile.

"Thanks Mommy."

"You were going into shock," she said.

"Yeah, I went to med school too, ya know."

"How's the pain now?"

"You don't want to know."

"On a scale from 1 to 10?"

"Ah, but this goes to 11," he said with a slight cockney accent. She smiled, recognizing his quote from the film 'This is Spinal Tap.'

Cuddy . . . ," he paused and the air between them seemed to get heavier. She knew what he was going to say, the tangible fear that he was so desperately trying to hide but that was still so alive in his voice, in his eyes.

"This is NOT another infarction," she said trying to make her voice as even as possible. "We'll get you in first thing tomorrow and run tests, do an MRI but this is just a normal pain level adjustment. Now we'll just need to fine-tune your meds to counteract it."

He sighed heavily and raised his downcast eyes to her face. "Does anyone actually buy that crap?"

"Patients do," she said smiling.

"Yeah, well patients are idiots."

"They usually are."

He shifted uncomfortably under the covers, exposing his arms. Cuddy appreciated the lines of lean muscle made plainly visible with the t-shirt. Her attention was soon drawn back to his face however as he threw his head back to deal with another wave of pain. The veins stood out on his long elegant neck and his adam's apple shifted and rose as he swallowed hard, clenching the muscles of his jaw.

"Say something," he whispered through gritted teeth.

"What?"

"Anything. Tell me a story. Talk about Rachel. Just keep talking. It keeps my mind off the pain." The last portion of his plea came out in a strangled hiss.

So Cuddy started to talk. She began talking about her daughter even though she was completely surprised that _he_ was the one to suggest the topic. She told him about Rachel trying to stand and walk while holding onto the furniture, her extensive three or four word vocabulary, how beautiful she looked in a new dress Cuddy had bought her for the holidays and how she had positively insisted upon being lifted out of her stroller while at the mall so that she could be taken to see Santa Claus.

"It seemed she was fascinated by his beard," Cuddy said. "The softness and the whiteness of it. She kept fussing until we let her sit on his lap like she saw the other kids doing." Cuddy blushed with pride. "I've got lots of pictures. She cried when we finally had to go."

Apparently, the time span between the spasms in House's leg began to lengthen. He was still breathing heavily but his respiration had slowed.

"You let your kid see Santa Claus?" House raised his eyebrows. "But Cuddy, you're Jewish! Aren't you just going to confuse the kid when you have to break it to her that Santa and his reindeer don't visit the Cuddy household and 'Here, you can have this really lame dreidel instead?'"

Cuddy smiled. "Well of course I won't get her a really lame dreidel, I'll get her a really cool one. And my daughter can celebrate the holidays any way she wants to, whatever way makes her happy."

She looked down at his face to see him looking very keenly at her. Without thinking, she reached for his hand lying on top of the blankets. She gently clasped his hand and was surprised when she felt him lightly squeeze hers in return.

"You are a good mother," he said. And then he sighed and closed his eyes.

Cuddy took her other hand and placed that too over House's hand. As she leaned forward, she heard the front door open and Wilson's familiar footfall approaching. Before losing her nerve, she pressed her lips against House's scruffy cheek, tenderly kissing him.

He opened his eyes as she was sitting upright and Wilson entered the room. House looked at her from the corners of his eyes and smiled sardonically at her.

"And a hypocrite," he said.

She simply smiled her reply as Wilson injected House and his eyes closed again, sleep overtaking him as he was finally relieved from his pain.


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N: If you really like the character of Lucas, you might want to skip this chapter, or at least the end of it. He had a bit of a difficult time. But hey, the dude was asking for it.**

**41 – "****I was all right for a while. I could smile for a while. But I saw you last night, you held my hand so tight . . . I thought that I was over you but it's true, so true.  
I love you even more than I did before but darling what can I do? For you don't love me and I'll always be crying over you." – "Crying" – Roy Orbison**

The drive back to her home seemed to take place in a dream. Time flattened and stretched out making her short drive into a prolonged journey.

The night time roads glowed orange from the overhead street lights as Cuddy's vision became wet and blurred once more. Her perspective was something her windshield wipers could do nothing to improve however, so she wiped away yet another tear that trickled down her cheek.

Cuddy's head was full of questions and her heart . . . well, her heart was full of House. She kept seeing him, his head thrown back and his eyes squeezed shut in pain, the muscles in his arms and neck tensed, shivering as he started to go into shock.

And then she remembered as he became more quiet, his hand in both of hers and his eyes, his beautiful eyes, so large and lustrous sapphire in the darkened room, focused on her as she talked about Rachel. His voice as he spoke to her, that musical yet gruff and masculine sound, teasing her, getting in one last shot before the drugs Wilson had given him began to take effect.

God, what was wrong with her? Why did he always make her feel this way, like she was still the undergrad with an infatuation on the brilliant med student?

It was Brenda's fault. Tonight of all nights, Cuddy had finally decided to have a conversation with Brenda. Brenda's words got her started thinking about House and then Wilson's frantic call simply sealed the deal. That had to be it. She couldn't possibly still have feelings other than compassion and friendship toward House. Could she?

After all, she was currently involved with a man who quite possibly worshipped the ground she walked on, a man who was willing to babysit her daughter, a man who was . . .

"Boring," she said aloud, though she hadn't meant to.

Now why did she say that? Just because Lucas was predictable, that just made him easier to get along with, didn't it? Besides, spontaneity, especially in relationships, was highly overrated.

Sure, House was capricious and he could be rather charming in his own way. But his kind of constant volatility was intolerable on a day-to-day basis.

Cuddy knew in her heart of hearts that that wasn't true. She had worked with him for years at the hospital and had tuned into his moods, his behaviors. While they were not always pleasing, they were never boring and really, a large part of the attraction she felt going to work every day.

Something interesting was always going to happen every day with House; fascinating, exciting, maddening or funny. The man was like a self-contained theme park and she willingly paid the entrance fee on a daily basis.

But his mercurial tendencies also had a dark side. Didn't this evening's events prove that out?

Even as that thought crossed her mind, she felt guilty for thinking it. House had had a rough time all around, personally and professionally, particularly of late. And for the first time in a long time, he had no drugs to dull the physical and emotional pain he was undoubtedly going through.

Yes, he slipped up but he had immediately rectified the situation himself, by purging the Vicodin. And he had called for help _before_ he had gone to his apartment, _before_ he gave in, however briefly, to temptation.

House was really trying. Cuddy smiled. House was nothing if not a fighter. He was digging himself out, bit-by-bit, from the very deep, dark hole he had gotten himself into. She could see that, nearly anyone could. Didn't he deserve to be cut at least a little bit of slack, particularly by those who could be called his friends?

Friends? Was that what she was to him? Or did he simply take her for granted, like how he treated her as a boss? His difficulties with authority figures explained his disregard for her managerial efforts but certainly, she meant more to him than just a figurehead at work?

Cuddy remembered when she had initially tried IVF. House, the genius bastard once again, had figured out her secret. She knew that he would go tell Wilson and the two of them would soon be roaring with laughter at her expense.

Then . . . nothing. No pranks or teasing or even subtle jokes. House never did tell Wilson and had kept her secret. He even helped give her the necessary hormonal injections.

She shivered slightly, but not from the cold. She was remembering the way he touched her, without mocking, when she lifted her skirt for the shots. He had been professional. But he was also a man. She had seen the way his pupils dilated and heard his voice take on a husky quality. She remembered being bent over her own desk with him standing behind her. That image began to make her feel a warm spasm somewhere below her stomach.

Why did she always have this reaction with him? Why could he, with just a look or a gesture, throw her off guard and put her libido into overdrive?

Cuddy already knew the answer. Even after all these years, she still remembered their one night together in Michigan. That night was burned into her very soul and there was nothing she could do to erase it. The way he took control, the way he touched her, gently but firmly and oh, so slowly, the way he made her feel . . . it was over 20 years ago but her body remembered.

It was by no means her first time. She was the extreme party girl and she was very experienced.

But it had been the first time anyone had sought to pleasure her, to make her climax again and again until the gray light of dawn had fallen across the bed and they had fallen asleep together, bodies, hearts and minds all intertwined as one.

She had given House her heart that night, so many years ago, and she had never gotten it back. Their relationship wasn't simply physical but their intimacy had been the ultimate tangible manifestation of their love.

For she had felt it from him as well; there simply was no faking that kind of heartfelt emotion and his actions that night had spoken volumes. And now she realized that his actions had always said more about his heart than his words ever could.

As she pulled into the driveway, she recognized Lucas' car.

"Damn him," she thought, "he must've told Marina to go home."

And then she immediately felt ashamed. What was she doing to herself? Pining for a man that she could not have while a perfectly good man waited for her at home? A man who tended to her and her child's needs? A man who cooked and cleaned and made love to her? What was wrong with her? What was wrong with Lucas?

Brenda's words came back to her, "Follow your heart." But how could she? She realized with a twinge of guilt that her heart didn't belong to her, hadn't belonged to her in quite some time. So she couldn't possibly give it to someone else.

As Cuddy climbed out of the car, she shook her head and wiped her still wet face fiercely with her sleeve. "No," she thought. "It's my life and it's my daughter's life too. I'll live it the way I see fit. The way I want to. The safest way."

She stopped in her tracks. Was Lucas really safe? Or was he simply easier? No spontaneity, no intense debates, no surprises . . . no passion.

Ugh! Would this infantile craving for House never end?

Another wave of remorse washed over her. Cuddy knew she was just going to have to shake this feeling off. She needed to exorcise her feelings for House from her body, her mind, her soul. And she knew just the way to do it.

She was going to march into her own house, take her man by the hand and make love to him until dawn or at least until she could purge House from her system as he had purged the Vicodin from his. She would conquer this, control her emotions, and Lucas' body was going to be the way for her to do it.

Cuddy walked through the door and dropped her briefcase in the hallway. Lucas came out from the hallway but before he could ask about her day, she had thrown her arms about his neck and began kissing him with wild abandon. Clothes were shed quickly as they stumbled together into the bedroom.

Lucas was never much for foreplay, his usual reason was that by the time Lisa got home, it was late and he was tired. And this night proved to be no exception.

However, for tonight, his expeditious work seemed to be no great impediment to her as she felt her body's rhythm join with his, approaching her state of bliss. She heard him cry out, "Oh Lisa!" as he finished and fell heavily on top of her. She was just barely able to hurry herself and follow his lead as she too peaked and cried out, "Oh House!"

His heavy breathing suddenly stopped and she could feel him turn his face toward hers as she continued to gasp for air while staring at the darkened ceiling.

It was going to be a very long night after all.


	42. Chapter 42

**42 – "I went back to my mother. I said, 'I'm crazy ma help me.' She said, 'I know how it feels son, 'cause it runs in the family.' Can you see the real me mother?" – "The Real Me" – The Who**

The next day, Wilson personally scheduled and monitored House's MRI; no change. House half-hoped the test would have shown something, anything, so that he could have a physical reason on which to blame his increased pain.

Denied that excuse, House went back to his regular routine. He popped mild painkillers, drank too much and failed to mention most of these propensities in his weekly visits to his shrink, Dr. Nolan.

Meanwhile, House and Cuddy, like a pair of professional boxers, had once again retired to their respective corners. House knew the kiss at his apartment meant something. It certainly meant something to him, but he couldn't bring himself to beat her over the head about it. He was tired of banging his head against a brick wall, tired of her rejection of him, and tired of Lucas, that annoying little prick, continually winning out.

Lucas found out that Wilson outbid Cuddy on her "dream" condo and that he and House were now in residence. His reaction was to treat both House and Wilson to a week of some very nasty practical joking.

House and Wilson had been stumped as to who the perpetrator of their most recent version of hell was until Lucas finally revealed it to them in the cafeteria after tripping House as he limped by. Wilson had lost his prized widescreen TV in the melee and House had been physically hurt by a loosened shower grip that flew back, cutting his face. He had also fallen hard when Lucas tripped him, adding yet another injury to his growing list of aches and pains.

But Lucas had the last laugh. He threw his actions in their faces and at the same time deprived the two friends any retribution by reminding them of how much Cuddy would be hurt by her so-called friends both now living in her lost dream home. It was House himself that made the decision not to retaliate and Wilson, rather than feeling inspired that House was, for once, taking the high road, began to suffer a sense of dread. It seemed to him that House had simply chosen to give up and not fighting back had never been House's first choice of action.

The weeks passed and as Christmas drew near, Blythe House prepared to make her promised visit to Princeton. She packed early the night before her flight and made one more phone call to her son, finalizing the plan for him to pick her up at the airport and drive her over to his old apartment. Now that Greg was staying with Wilson, the necessity of her staying in a local motel seemed unwarranted.

Blythe could hear the hesitancy in her son's voice, not only of her staying in his apartment, his fortress of solitude, but of the underlying motives for her visit. Greg was simply not buying the easy rationale of her need to spend Christmas with him this year; and for very good reason. Just as she could always read the subtext beneath his statements, he had, apparently, inherited that very trait from her. And Blythe just hoped that she would have a chance to speak to her son before the real reason behind her visit was discovered.

As she boarded the plane the next morning and took her seat, Blythe began to think back over the twists and turns of her very complicated relationship with her brilliant son.

Blythe House had grown up and married in that generation that still believed in the tradition that the husband ruled the household. The fact that he often ruled with an iron fist was to be expected, particularly taking into account his military career.

While she had never been personally subjected to John House's physical abuse, she was still of the opinion to not interfere when her husband's tirades so often turned upon her son. She purposely made herself unaware of the level of correction that her husband enforced upon Greg and shrugged off the rest with the familiar refrain "spare the rod, spoil the child."

Gregory was smart, brilliantly so, funny, talented and sensitive. Way too sensitive, in fact, to ever fit into the preferred military mold that John insisted he conform to. And, unfortunately, his heightened intelligence caused him to ask too many questions of his often overwrought and overworked father.

Greg never talked about what happened behind the closed door to his bedroom after his father strode determinedly in there with a belt or a switch. Although she couldn't help but notice the way he moved so carefully the next day or the occasional glimpse of bruises and welts that plainly showed against his pale skin when his un-tucked shirt rode up on his thin body.

Even more noticeable was the deadly silence that reigned over the house for days after John's latest foray into Greg's room. Gregory would sit at the table, a vacant expression on his face, the light gone from his eyes; until John sat down. Then the fire would rekindle in Greg's blue eyes as he met his father's look of incredulous fury.

Greg was letting John know that no matter what, he hadn't broken him. His defiance, remained intact and his intense gaze simply sparked the next wave of abuse that his father was ready to dish out in his never-ending attempts to crush his son's indomitable spirit.

Maybe she should have intervened. Maybe she should have talked to John or taken Greg away with her someplace else, someplace safe. But she simply didn't know where to go. Women of her generation and family never considered divorce. It just wasn't an option.

Besides, as his father was hard on him, Blythe felt that she balanced it out with her leniency. She bought him books to feed his voracious literary appetite and musical instruments and lessons to go along with them. She took him for hamburgers and ice cream when they were stationed in the States and listened as he incessantly chattered about insects, reptiles, plants, history and music, any and all of his latest intellectual pursuits.

Later, as he became interested in girls, Blythe saw with pride how her son focused his wit and considerable abilities on this new, puzzling aspect of life. Greg had always primarily been a loner but his intelligence, good looks and athletic abilities earned him a bevy of girls who followed him around as if he were a rock star.

Even when they moved to Japan because John was reassigned there, Greg hardly slowed down. The new language was only a temporary barrier. Greg had always acquired languages easily wherever they had been stationed around the world. And the Japanese girls were just as impressed as the girls elsewhere with her tall, smart, good-looking son.

But then one day, Blythe came home early just as John was leaving. He wouldn't say where he was going, he didn't need to. It was obvious he was heading out to the bar for a drink, more likely, several. He got in his car and the tires screeched as he drove off. Something about the stillness in the house awakened her mother's instincts. Something was very wrong.

She found him on the floor of his room, naked and bleeding. His wounds were not only on his body this time but Greg had obviously been hit with something heavy and sharp, about the face and neck as well. Blythe tried to help him up but he pushed her away, grabbing a blanket from the bed to cover his body and to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

Blythe wanted to take him to the hospital but he adamantly refused. She would never forget the look in his eyes as he pushed her out of his room; the look of hurt, the look of accusation, the look of betrayal.

When John came home, the smell of scotch lingering strongly on his breath, he supplied his version of events that day. He said that even after he had ordered Greg not to ride motorcycles, he deliberately disobeyed his father and had been in an accident.

That night, when Greg sat down at the table, no look of defiance met his father's authoritative gaze. His deep blue eyes stared down at his empty plate. No amount of prompting could encourage him to eat, not even when Blythe brought some food to his room later. He turned her away at his door saying he wasn't hungry.

She went to bed that night and cried herself to sleep.

As the plane dropped lower in the sky, Blythe thought how she had always stood between the two men in her life, watching as they drifted away from each other, and how she had felt powerless to help either one of them.

It was too late for her husband. But now, perhaps, it was within her influence to help one of them, to help her son. She wasn't sure of his reaction, he might feel that her assistance was far too little, too late. But she had to try.

For all that had, and hadn't happened between them, she still loved him. And she desperately needed to let him know, to know that she had always loved him, even though she hadn't always done what was right for him. She needed to let him know all these things before time ran out.

Blythe's plane landed at Newark airport just ahead of a terrific snowstorm. House had barely gotten his mother ensconced in his old apartment before he was called back to the hospital. His presence was required to perform ER triage duty in response to the overwhelming idiocy that had caused traffic pileups on all of the major roadways.

The winter accidents annoyed him. House was about ready to grill his mother over the reasons for her visit when he got the hospital's page.

Driving back to PPTH, it was hard to keep his mind on his own driving as House pondered the current presence of his mother. She usually visited Aunt Sarah for the holidays. Why had she decided to come here? Why now?

His mother looked a little greyer, a little older, perhaps a little thinner. But that was certainly not unusual, not after the amount of time that had passed since the last instance that he'd seen her. And House had to admit that life without his father had most probably been hard for her.

But knowing his mother, House guessed that she had a definitive reason for coming to stay _this_ time, even if she was using the excuse of being with her only son during the holidays.

He rejected the notion that Wilson had said anything about his breakdown since it was doubtful that his mother would have waited until now to visit. But he decided to talk with Wilson later that night after his triage duty, just to make sure.

True to form, Wilson had also assisted in the ER and then returned to his office to clean up some paperwork on a few of his own patients. House, also true to form, barged into Wilson's office without knocking. He sat in the chair facing the oncologist's desk and placed his feet on said desk. Crossing his legs at the ankles, right over left, House began twirling his cane like a baton.

Wilson looked up from his papers. "Was it anything special you wanted or did you come here to perform your routine annoying act?"

"Have you been talking to my mother?"

"No. Why?"

"You never said anything to her about my breakdown? Mayfield? Any of it?"

"House, no." Wilson's voice had taken a sharper tone. "Why are you asking me this now?"

"Just trying to find out what's prompted her visit for Christmas this year."

"She can't just visit her son around the holidays? There has to be some darker motive?"

As if on cue, Wilson's desk phone rang. Wilson recognized House's home phone number on the display panel.

"This is your mom now," Wilson said. "Why don't we just ask her . . ."

"Don't tell her I'm here."

"Why the hell not?"

"Just answer your phone Wilson."

Wilson did as he was told. "Hello Blythe."

"Hello James. It's good to hear your voice. Is Greg in the room?"

Wilson was momentarily in a quandary. If Blythe had been looking for her son, wouldn't she have tried House's cell phone first? It suddenly occurred to Wilson that House's paranoia regarding his mother's visit may have been well founded.

But deciding that a one word answer would not really betray his friend, he answered, "Yes."

"Oh great, you just told my mom I'm here."

"Can you hold on a minute Blythe?" Wilson placed his hand over the receiver. "How the hell . . . ?"

"Wilson, you have possibly the worst poker face in the world. You have guilt written all over you." House stood up. "Fine, you two 'Gossip Girls' have a nice, private chat. I'll be in my office trying to remove the knife in my back."

"Aren't you being a little melodramatic?" Wilson yelled after him as House limped out of the office without another word. He turned his attention back to the phone.

"Blythe? He just left."

"I'm sorry if I got you in trouble James, but I did want to talk with you privately."

Wilson shuddered with apprehension. Blythe's words and manner did not bode well; not for him, not for herself, and most certainly, not for House.


	43. Chapter 43

**43 – "Are you alright? 'Cause you took off without a word. Are you alright? You flew away like a little bird." – "Are You Alright?" – Lucinda Williams**

Cameron wanted this whole thing over and done with. She really hated coming back to Princeton right before Christmas, but Chase had given her no choice.

He had flatly refused to answer her phone calls. Any paperwork involving the finalization of their divorce had been sent back to her unsigned. Her requests, pleas, threats had all fallen on deaf ears. Apparently her Aussie husband had suddenly forgotten how to understand American English.

She knew Chase's real intent was to try and force a showdown. There was no way they had worked on House's team for all those years together without them both acquiring a definitive need to solve a puzzle. And it seemed as if his soon-to-be ex-wife was providing Chase with the most baffling puzzle of all.

Since Chase was back on House's team, there would be no way for her to predict when he might be home. The only way, therefore, for her to confront him, divorce papers in hand, would be for her to go back to Princeton Plainsboro. And that was something she most certainly did not want to do.

The possibility of her seeing House was very real and very frightening to her. She simply could not predict how she would react to seeing him again. She feared that the need to touch him would override everything else and another rejection from him was a burden she knew she could not shoulder. Not now.

However, as she drove along the freshly plowed streets, Cameron devised a simple plan. She would go to the clinic, which House avoided like the plague, and have Chase paged there. That way, she could have him sign the divorce papers and make her escape, completely avoiding any messy confrontations with House.

When she got to the hospital, Chase responded to the page, but upon seeing his wife, deserted her in the lobby. She followed him into an exam room. After exchanging a few words, it seemed obvious that he wasn't going to sign the papers, not without a long, dragged out discussion about the pitfalls and failures of their marriage. Next to seeing House again, that conversation was the last thing Cameron wanted. She was on her way out of the clinic, when the code for a lockdown of the hospital was announced over the loudspeaker. Now what was she to do?

With a determined stride, she walked back to the exam room. If she and Chase were meant to have it out then let it be so. At least she didn't have to deal with House.

Chase was more than a little surprised when his wife strode back through the door. Cameron was certainly the one person he knew who would avoid unpleasant confrontations at all costs.

But one of Chase's defining characteristics was his stubbornness. Surely, at this point, Cameron would say that he had acquired this personality trait from House. That, however, wasn't true, had never been true.

Chase had stubbornly taken care of his alcoholic mother when his father had deserted them, had resisted a reunion with his father, refused to follow in his father's footsteps. No matter that all of these ventures, in the end, failed. Chase had always had his own mindset about things. That was the main reason that he and Cameron had eventually gotten married, he had stubbornly rejected her protestations that she did not, in fact, love him.

He looked back over his life to see how this fatal flaw had seemingly worked against him so many times. But now, he was learning to play his strengths and his faults, to his own advantage, how to manipulate people and circumstances to his will.

After all, Cameron was here wasn't she? By ignoring her letters and phone calls, Chase had forced her hand. Not everything he had learned under the tutelage of Gregory House was all bad. In fact, very little of it was.

Chase noticed as they talked that Cameron never asked about House. That, in and of itself, was strange. House was like the elephant in the room. They both realized that their choices and the disintegration of their marriage was very much entangled with their different feelings about the man.

Yet Chase was both aware and accepted Cameron's avoidance of the subject. His real interest lay in hearing what his wife had to say about their long love affair, their short marriage, their abrupt breakup.

For once, Cameron was not loath to talk about her feelings. She admitted that she must have been screwed up from a long time ago. Why else would she have married her first husband _after_ she knew he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer?

And she finally admitted the thing that Chase needed to hear, that she did not love him. Sure, she made excuses and tried to take it back, in a way, after she had said it. But Chase felt the truth of her disclosure, hell, they both did.

With that truth, Chase was free. He could finally let Cameron go because he knew that if she never loved him, then there was nothing he could ever have done to save their marriage. They had been, as she once told him, only lovers of convenience, having sex only because of their proximity to each other. His refusal to believe this simple fact led him to push for something more, something that was inevitably doomed to failure.

And the sex had been good. They both remembered. They both missed that part of their relationship.

Before either of them knew it, they were in each other's arms again. This was the one thing, in all the years, that was good between them, the wordless communication and give and take that allowed them to express what they felt through touch and taste.

Chase felt the ease in which he and Cameron slipped back into their routine. It was as if no time whatsoever had passed between them although it had been nearly two months.

There was something different about her though. It had nothing to do with the fact that she had gained some weight. In fact, the extra pounds looked most becoming on her. No, there was something else. In her reactions to him, in her engagement with the act itself, she seemed more aware, more actively enthusiastic.

And then he knew. She had slept with House. Her love and despair over House seemed to spill over into everything else, including their own lovemaking. It just seemed that even Cameron was not aware of it herself.

The lockdown ended. As she got dressed, Chase looked at her. His heart was full. He could let her go now. He knew he wasn't to blame in the final breakdown of their relationship and in a strange way, neither was she. It was as if they both had been sucked into the elemental vortex that was House and had their paths chosen for them from the start.

Chase loved House like a father. Cameron simply loved House for the wounded, despotic, brilliant, dynamic person that he was. Neither Chase nor Cameron could blame the other for the paths they were now on, paths that only seemed as if they had been fated but had really been the culmination of their own decisions from long ago.

She was at the door, ready to walk out with her signed divorce papers when Chase spoke.

"Will you see him?"

Cameron turned back toward Chase. Her eyes were large and expressive.

"No, I don't think I will."

"He hasn't been so great since you left, you know."

Cameron shook her head and said, "No, I didn't know. But I guess we all have to live with the choices we've made."

Chase looked at her intensely. This might be the last time. It certainly would be the last time they would be together like this, talk like this.

"Yes, I guess you're right. Only, sometimes we're a little too hard on others who have no idea they've even made a choice. And of course, we're hardest on ourselves."

Cameron's eyes began to swim with unshed tears.

"Take care of yourself, Chase."

She turned to the door once more. Chase made one, last ditch appeal.

"Do you want me to tell him anything?"

Cameron stopped again. But this time, she remained facing the door.

"Tell him . . . Tell him . . . Oh hell, I don't know what you should tell him. Maybe . . . tell him to take care of himself too?" And then she walked through the door, letting it close behind her.

It was déjà vu as she hurried to her rental car, closed the driver's side door and wept. Great heaving sobs came out of her as she thought about the two men in this place. The one, would always have her gratitude. The other, would always have her heart.

Cameron had just not considered that she was being so obvious in the feelings she still harbored for House. She knew Chase was a smart man, but as she drove away, she was grateful that while smart, House's axiom that 'Everybody lies,' was true, not only for others, but also in how people can lie to themselves. Because it was only Chase's ability to lie to himself that made him miss the obvious, that she was carrying House's child.


	44. Chapter 44

**44 – "Bound at every limb by my shackles of fear, sealed with lies through so many tears. Lost from within and pursuing the end . . . You will never be good enough. You were never conceived in love. – "Lies" – Evanescence**

Unable to sit, Wilson paced behind his desk, his stride, short and choppy, emphasizing his anxious demeanor. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back allowing his white lab coat to gap generously across his chest, revealing his starched, pressed shirt and green paisley tie.

House hated that tie. He had mocked Wilson for wearing it on any number of occasions. But not this morning. This morning, Wilson left the loft early, avoiding his friend as he had done since Blythe House's arrival in Princeton.

Mornings were easy. All he had to do was get up early enough to steer clear of House's routine late morning alarm.

Nights proved more problematic. House still suffered from insomnia and his usual night owl persona caused him to lurk about the loft from late evening into the early hours of dawn.

But now as Wilson considered it, House had not been shadowing him at all. He had been monumentally busy, in fact, the whole week that his mother had been in town. He'd taken on more cases, increased his workload and his hours in the clinic.

It was then that Wilson realized that in complete contradiction to his usual modus operandi, House had actually been dodging Wilson too. He had not outsmarted nor outmaneuvered his friend. For it seemed that House was just as reticent to talk about his mother with Wilson as Wilson had been to broach the subject with House.

He continued pacing. Wilson took his left arm from behind his back and looked at his watch. He saw that he had paged House over half an hour before. It was funny how, if House paged him, he was expected to respond immediately. But if he paged House . . . well, he was sure that if, nothing else, House had a good reason for being late. Like that he simply refused to be on time, ever.

"James, you know you're beginning to make me nervous," Blythe House said. "Are you sure . . ."

"Blythe, there's no way that we can keep this from him any longer. I agreed to wait until after Christmas for your sake. But I'm his best friend. I won't continue to lie to him . . .

"I never asked you to do that."

"I mean lying by the sin of omission. That you DID ask of me."

Blythe House looked into James Wilson's handsome face. His usually boyish features had taken on a tired, sunken-eyed expression.

She _had_ asked a lot of him, continued to ask a lot of him. She smiled feebly to herself. No matter what happened, it was good to know that her son had the kind of friend he had in James Wilson; intelligent, kindly, perhaps a little too overprotective. Maybe James, even though he was younger, was not so much a friend as a surrogate father, the kind of father Greg had always wanted, had always needed, had always deserved.

She looked back down as if to study the upholstery of the couch on which she sat. As she did so, Gregory House came through the door with his usual aplomb.

"Okay Wilson, this had better be . . ." House stopped in his tracks when he saw Wilson standing, not sitting behind his desk. He whirled around to see his mother seated on the far side of Wilson's office.

"Oh, oh. This can't be good. My spider senses are tingling."

"House, maybe you should sit down."

House narrowed his eyes at his friend. "You're using your cancer doctor's voice. And the only reason for that would be . . ." House slowly turned his head toward his mother. In a low voice he said, "How long?"

"Greg, don't you think you should sit down? James and I would like to talk to you . . ."

"There are only two things I need to know," House said. Though his voice was level, it had deepened to a much more dangerous tone. "One is how long do you have? And the other is," he turned to face Wilson, "How long have you known?"

"Don't blame James! I made him promise not to say anything to you until after Christmas!"

"What the hell difference does that make? Not to me!" House turned again to Wilson, "And certainly not to a Jew!"

Blythe got to her feet. "Greg, if you won't calm down, I have nothing further to say to you!" She began to walk toward the door.

House interposed his tall, lean form between his mother and her escape route. "Nobody," he said in a quiet snarl, "leaves here until I get some answers."

Blythe turned toward the chair in front of Wilson's desk and sat down. She breathed a heavy sigh and with shining eyes, looked up at Wilson who nodded to her. "What do you want to know?"

The tension in House's frame released just a millimeter although the knuckles of his right hand turned whiter as he gripped his cane tightly. "How long do you have?"

It was Wilson who spoke up. "Difficult to say. As of right now," and he glanced once more at Blythe who nodded her head, "your mother is refusing all treatment."

"What?"

"Greg, I need to tell you . . ."

"No mom. What the hell does he mean?" House turned toward Wilson again. "What do you mean 'refusing all treatment'?"

Wilson saw that while his friend's face was set in anger, his eyes reflected that defeated look that had recently afflicted him. It made him worry. It made him afraid for House. And it made him unable to meet the intensity of his friend's icy blue stare. He lowered his head.

"Your mother has, so far, refused surgery and chemotherapy." Wilson looked back at House to see his face fall even further, if that was possible. "But there's still time," Wilson said as he put out both of his palms in a stop-like gesture. "She just needs to be convinced . . ."

"Like hell! She doesn't need to be convinced. She needs to be declared mentally incompetent! Then her next of kin will be able to make sure that she gets the necessary treatment." He turned to his mother, "And _I_ will make sure you get those treatments!"

"I'm not insane," Blythe said quietly. "I'm just . . . James, do you think Greg and I could have a few minutes alone."

"Certainly." Wilson grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and walked toward the door. "Please, take all the time you need."

"Don't think you're getting off that easy . . . buddy o' mine."

Wilson nodded once to House, his tired face lined, his mouth taught with the severity of his expression. "Never doubted it for a second." Then, to Blythe, he said, "I'll be available later, if you need anything." He walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

As soon as Wilson left the office, House walked behind the desk and sat down in Wilson's chair. The office was quiet for several minutes as neither House nor his mother spoke.

Finally, without raising his eyes he said, "Why are you punishing me? Do you hate me so much?"

Blythe's hand flew to her mouth as she inhaled sharply. Slowly, lowering her hand to the arm of the chair once more, she said, "I am not punishing you Greg. And I never, could never . . . hate you." Her voice shattered with her last words.

House's clear blue eyes moved to his mother's face. His look was so earnest, so wounded, that Blythe's tears rose unbidden to her eyes, overflowing at the corners and running down her cheeks.

"Then why?" House said. "Why are you doing this? Why now?"

"I'm tired Greg. Tired of this life. Tired of living without your father." House visibly tensed again at her last statement.

"So that's it? You're just giving up?" House's anger had risen once more. "And then what? You die? What do you think happens after that? Nothing! No heaven where you and dad can stroll down tree-lined streets. No hell. Nothing! Just death and decay and putrefaction and . . ."

"Oh stop it Greg! Please, for once just . . . stop!" Blythe began to sob.

House rose from the chair and limped over to where his mother sat. "Shhh mom. Okay, okay. I'll stop," he said in a quiet voice. His slender fingers began to stroke the top of her bowed head as he shushed her.

He stood there silently, letting his mother get control of her tears once more. Finally, she was dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex from the box on Wilson's desk and sniffling quietly. House knelt down next to her chair and placed both hands on her arm. Blythe took her free hand and placed it across her son's hand, patting him gently.

"I'm sorry Greg. I'm sorry I'm not stronger . . . that I wasn't stronger . . . I'm sorry I didn't protect you."

House could no longer meet his mother's sodden gaze. He looked down at the carpet as he spoke. "I'm sorry too mom. I'm sorry I wasn't a better son . . ."

"I've always been so proud of you Greg."

House lifted his face to his mother's again. She saw that his eyes too were rimmed in silver. "Really? I didn't think . . . Mom, please just think about the treatment? Think about it, for me?" And then, very quietly he added, "Please don't leave me. Not yet." He looked down at the carpeting once more.

Blythe grasped her son's hand with all her strength. "All right Greg. I'll think about it."


	45. Chapter 45

**45 – ****When you're down and troubled and you need a helping hand and nothing is going right. Close your eyes and think of me and soon I will be there to brighten up even your darkest nights . . . I will be knocking upon your door." – "You've Got a Friend" – James Taylor**

Why was she doing this? She was obviously a glutton for punishment. The last time she saw House in an intimate setting stirred up old feelings that were best kept dead and buried. They'd made a connection and then she did the unthinkable. She kissed him.

She'd gone home to Lucas to purge House from her system only to shout House's name at the most inopportune moment imaginable. In turn, that had led to one of the most spectacular fights she and Lucas had ever had.

Not that she could blame him. There was no greater assault to the fragile male ego than the unforgivable sin of yelling another man's name at the moment of highest passion.

It had taken the couple weeks to return to some semblance of a routine between them. Lucas had withheld sex for awhile, a decidedly feminine retribution to Cuddy's way of thinking. She also knew, however, that Lucas had chosen to get back at her in exactly the method that would upset her most. She liked sex, enjoyed it, craved it even and having been denied that physical outlet caused her frustration levels to rise. Cuddy had become more irritable, less effective at her job and what was worse, less patient with Rachel. Yes, Lucas could definitely hit her where she lived.

Yet here she was again, stepping right back into the snare that was Gregory House. She had been able to avoid House at work again after that night she had kissed him at his apartment.

What was even more evident was that House had been shunning her too. That was a good thing. With his shrewd powers of deduction, he would have seen the recent strain in her relationship with even the most peripheral observation. She really hadn't felt like defending Lucas lately because she had begun to question the validity of continuing to see him herself.

No matter what, however, no matter if her emotions were brought to the fore again or if she had yet another fight with Lucas, her current errand was more important.

Wilson had been keeping her abreast of House's activities since the night he took the Vicodin. He let her know of Blythe House's presence in Princeton during the holidays. But today, he sent her an urgent email providing the reason. House's mother had been diagnosed with cancer and she was refusing treatment. They were going to inform House of his mother's diagnosis and subsequent decision today.

Casting aside her misgivings, Cuddy called her babysitter and asked her to stay late. She had to see him, talk to him, be there for him. She intuitively knew that this time Wilson could not provide the comfort that House would need.

She was not sure of House's relationship with his mother. What she was sure of was the rationale that with one woman abandoning him, the only person who could possibly provide some consolation would be another woman. And there was currently no other woman in House's life save for Lisa Cuddy.

Not only that, but House was sure to see Wilson's adherence to the law of doctor/patient privilege as a betrayal to their friendship. House had precious few friends as it was and ostracizing Wilson meant that his circle of friends would be depleted by 50%. Cuddy felt the heavy yoke of responsibility forcing her to take up the slack.

She knew she was exposing herself to his fits of anger. He was highly likely to say something hurtful, something that could not be apologized for or taken back later. Not that House would do any of those things.

Yet, Cuddy was willing to bear the brunt of his lashing out in his disappointment and pain. Why? She really wasn't sure of that herself.

Except in the quiet places of her own heart. Only there she knew that the times when House had been tough with her, he had done it for her own good. And when he had been gentle with her it was when she needed it most. God, there were so many times when the man had made her laugh. Or cry. He was just someone she could never feel pedestrian about.

House fluctuated between her emotional poles. He was either like ice or steam. And yet, he was water too. He could buoy her up and give her hope or drag her down in a flood of despair. Her feelings toward House had always been this way, because he himself accepted nor displayed half measures. He was always "all in" even if he was playing his cards close to the vest.

It was infuriating how she felt his magnetic pull on her and her life. Here she was risking her relationship with Lucas to seek House out once again to comfort him.

But she somehow knew too, that this was the right thing to do. It was the first action in a long while that was decided deep within her, in that place that made no justifications or excuses for living with a man whom she did not love. She was not, for once, making a decision based on logic or what she thought she wanted, what she thought she or her daughter needed. No. This once, Cuddy was engaging in a selfless gesture. She was going to House _for_ House.

Whether he welcomed her intrusion or not was not important. Tonight, the night that he had found out his mother wanted to die, this night he would need Cuddy. And she would be there for him. She would be there for him to yell at, to bear witness to his pain, to watch him as he got drunk and to hold his head or stroke his back as he vomited into the toilet.

Cuddy both resented House's need and was drawn to it in the same breath. Perhaps the only way to break his mysterious hold on her was to finally stop fighting it and allow herself to be drawn in. Her fear told her that to be drawn in by House was to be pulled down by him. But she was tired of fighting with the man. She was tired of fighting the feelings within herself.

As she parked her car, Cuddy looked up to see the lights already on in Wilson's loft. She opened the door and stepped out, shivering in the frosty air. She stood for several moments, still unsure whether she should move forward or get back in her car and push the accelerator all the way to the floorboard to get back to her daughter, get back to Lucas, get back to the safe life that she had begun creating for herself.

She exhaled heavily and watched as the mist her breath had created momentarily hung in the air before it evaporated into the dark. Instinctively Cuddy knew her dreams of a secure, normal life only lived in the dark. Under the scrutiny of the harsh light of logic, her dreams disappeared like mist in the daylight.

The only thing that was real to her in this moment in time was the feeling in her heart for the man that was so close now. The feeling that had finally woken from its long slumber and was the only light to guide her as she made her way up the darkened path.


	46. Chapter 46

**46 – "You are the reason I've been waiting all these years – somebody holds the key. Well, I'm near the end and I just ain't got the time. And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home." – "Can't Find My Way Home" – Steve Winwood**

House stared into his glass. He snapped his wrist back and forth a few times and watched as the bourbon created thick auburn currents mixing with the melt water of the ice cubes. What glass was this? He wasn't counting tonight, not tonight. What was the point? May as well count bottles, not glasses.

There was a knock at the door and he heaved himself off the bar stool, rolling his eyes. He began talking loudly as he limped toward the door. "Wilson! When are you gonna hide a spare key for yourself? What is this, the third time since we moved in?"

House flung open the door. Lisa Cuddy stood just outside the threshold, inches from him. He tilted his head and peered sullenly at her from the corners of his eyes.

"To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this strictly a business call? Have I neglected my clinic hours? How will I _ever_ be able to forgive myself?"

Cuddy looked up at him, looked up into his clear blue eyes. All her former bravado and confidence melted away when her eyes met his. Then she glanced down to the glass of bourbon he was holding in his left hand.

He noticed where her gaze landed and insolently raised the glass to his lips, draining it. He turned from the still open door and limped back to the bar.

"Forgive me if I am not in the humor to receive visitors right now," he said. "But I can, at least, offer you a drink." He snatched up the still open bottle and refilled his glass. Turning back to Cuddy, he raised it in mock toast and emptied it before turning back to the bottle and filling the glass once more.

When he looked to her for an answer, she simply shook her head. His gaze hardened and Cuddy suddenly felt as if his eyes had turned to blue ice. "What do you want?" he said coldly. "Say what you came here to say and get out."

Unabashed, Cuddy followed him into the room, closing the door behind her. God, how he loved that about her, just as stubborn as he could be, willing to walk into the fires of hell, if necessary, to do what had to be done, say what had to be said.

"I just wanted to see . . . if you were alright," she answered. She took off her coat and laid it across the back of the couch.

House twitched his head and rolled his eyes. "Ah yes, the infamous, meddling doctor James Wilson . . .?"

She felt a strong desire to protect Wilson, who was obviously only trying, once again, to help. "No, your mother's records are on file in the hospital's computer."

"And you just thought what? That you could dig into my personal life to satisfy your own curiosity? So you're just dropping by to make sure your hospital's greatest asset hasn't done anything to embarrass you or your precious Board of Directors?"

"No House," Cuddy spoke up. "I just wanted to let you know, that if there's anything I can do . . ."

"What did you have in mind?" He leered at her suggestively as he once more raised the bourbon to his lips.

"I'm still your friend House. We've been friends for a long time."

"Really?" His features clouded over. "Let me see, what friendly overtures have you made toward me recently? Oh yeah, I remember. You sent me on a six-hour wild goose chase on a major holiday. Or should I say a wild cold turkey sandwich chase? And what else? You encouraged your current boy toy to loosen the bathtub handles so that the poor cripple could nearly break his neck. And let's not mention what he did to the cripple's best friend."

"House, I don't control _or_ support pissing matches between you and Lucas, or Wilson and Lucas for that matter!" Her eyebrows had created an angry line over her lovely blue-green eyes and her mouth had become taught.

"Ah, you're beautiful when you're angry. But I guess you hear that a lot. Only because you're an angry bitch most of the time."

"I didn't come here to argue with you House, hard as that may be for you to believe." Exasperation colored the sound of her voice. "I'm sorry about your mother. That's all I wanted to say." Cuddy turned to leave.

"Cuddy?" his voice was so low and quiet that it didn't register that he had spoken until she placed her hand on the doorknob. She turned back to see that he had moved halfway across the room and was standing there in the middle of the floor, his eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped.

"I . . . I'm sorry."

Cuddy gasped inaudibly.

House continued speaking to the floor. "Current events notwithstanding, you _have_ always been a good friend to me. You hired me when no one else would have and kept me on when any other hospital administrator would have fired me. And you hired me back after . . ." House waved his glass in a circular motion. "Well, when no one else would have hired me back either." There was a long, uncomfortable pause. He raised his eyes to her face. "Thank you."

Cuddy swayed slightly where she stood, completely stunned. It was as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of her lungs, been sucked out of the room.

When she finally found her voice she said, "You're an excellent doctor, an excellent diagnostician, always have been, always will be. We're lucky to have you." Her voice became rough. "And …" she stepped close enough to him to reach out and touch him on the arm which twitched slightly upon contact, "you've always been a good friend."

House looked at her hand still touching his arm and exhaled a short, bitter laugh.

"Yeah right. I've repaid your kindnesses with nothing but . . . grief, mockery, pain." He looked into her eyes again before he continued. "You were right last year Cuddy," he said as he shrugged away from her grasp, turned and limped back to the bar. "Anyone who gets close to me gets hurt. My poor mother, she didn't have much of a chance, did she?"

"House, you haven't hurt your mother." Cuddy walked to the end of the bar. She stood face to face with him as he sat on the stool. "I'm sure she's proud of you, of your accomplishments."

"Yeah, that's why she's looking for the quickest exit off the turnpike." He slugged back another drink.

Cuddy was becoming concerned about the amount of alcohol he was consuming in such a short time span. If he kept going the way he was going, he would be unconscious in no time with a terrific hangover by morning.

"And what have I accomplished exactly?" he continued. "C'mon Cuddy, you're a mother now. Which would you rather have? A child who has caused you no end of heartache, a successful doctor but still, a misanthropic, drug-addicted miserable son-of-a-bitch? Or a child that isn't so professionally successful but has a wife, people who love him, has given you . . ." He set his glass down and stared intensely at it. "Grandchildren," he finished.

Cuddy stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on House's shoulder. She felt him, once again, tremble at the contact. But this time, he made no move to shrug her off.

"Admit it. Why else did you want a child of your own? You're a successful woman. Graduated at only 25 from med school, second in your class, first female administrator for a major hospital, bring in more money to this hospital than any three previous administrators combined. Of course, it's always been my theory that you do that by wearing those low-cut tops, tight skirts and with the occasional, under-the-desk blow job." He glanced at her briefly, giving her a weak smile and then turned to stare again at the kitchen's tiled backsplash.

"All of that and it still wasn't enough. You wanted another person to share it with, to share your life with. You wanted to love someone and have someone love you back." He took another sip from his glass.

Cuddy stared at his profile. She didn't know what to say. Her heart felt like it had broken open and she wasn't sure how to heal herself, much less the man who was in such raw agony before her. The man whom she had always thought of, the one whom she had always somehow, in some way, loved.

"No, you were right last year. I just wish . . . I just wish I had the courage to keep away from you, to keep away from Wilson. I just wish I wasn't so afraid of being . . . alone."

There it was. He had eloquently summarized the wreck he had made of his relationships, all his relationships, the constant state of attraction and repulsion that held sway over House and his heart. His terrible, aching, very human need, to be loved tempered by his fear of hurting those he loved the most by his own nature. His reasoning behind pushing everyone away and keeping them at arms' length, for their protection and for the protection of his own heart from the pain of rejection. And his grasping, plaintive need to bring others close again, fighting his terrible fear of being lonely and alone.

Cuddy had never seen anyone as alone as House. And yet right now, he had given her the passport in. His heart was laying open for her, for her only, to see. He'd expressed his myriad of emotions, his need to love and be loved and his overriding need to protect those he loved by making them strong enough to withstand his own neediness. God, how had he twisted himself like this for so long? Could he really hate himself this much and love a few others so powerfully?

All Cuddy knew was that his heart was breaking. All she knew was that her own heart was breaking for him. So she did the only thing she could think of. She placed her hands on either side of his face and turned him to look at her. As she did so, a single tear dislodged and rolled down his right cheek. She acted without thinking. She kissed his tear away, tasting the salt, like the sea, upon her tongue.

Less than an inch away from each other, their eyes met. Cuddy became lost in the blue, the deep blue of his eyes, as deep and mysterious as the ocean.

They kissed; tentatively at first and then deeply, passionately, tenderly, breathlessly. Her hands brushed along his face and through his hair, returning to gently trace the edges of his ears. She felt his arms reach round, pulling her tightly against him as if he would never let go.

House stood up, slightly off-balance from both the bourbon and his bad right leg. The spinning sensation in his head that Cuddy was causing with her delicious kissing wasn't helping much either. He moved toward her and as if they had already rehearsed the dance, she followed backward, allowing him to lead.

Their lips never parted as her hands deftly removed his jacket and button-down shirt, dropping them as they progressed down the hallway. She vaguely became aware that he had moved her out of the main room, down the hall and had pushed her against a closed door. She felt his left hand leave her waist and fumble at the doorknob and then they were inside, his left hand returning to hold her by the waist as his right hand closed the door to his bedroom behind them.


	47. Chapter 47

The following chapter is rated M for sexual content.

**47 – "What I carry in my heart brings us so close but so far apart. Only love can make love." – "That Voice Again" – Peter Gabriel**

She didn't care, didn't want to think about anything else. Nothing and no one else existed in this moving, spinning, whirling moment in time. There were only her and House and his hands slowly unbuttoning her blouse and his bourbon-scented breath breathing into her mouth as if he were breathing life itself into her.

What had started quickly had become frozen and timeless. House's hands slowed down as he reached up and around her, moving so leisurely she focused on the friction they created on the soft skin of her torso and back.

His kissing had slowed as well, as if he had just seated himself to a seven-course banquet and was determined to enjoy every mouthful. He kissed her along her jaw line and up behind her ear, taking the time to gently nibble the lobe before moving slowly down her neck. As her head fell back, his left hand moved up to cradle it as he continued to kiss and wet her neck with his tongue. He then gently blew against her skin to dry her neck, sending shivers down her spine and a warm pleasant quiver somewhere lower than her stomach.

Cuddy wasn't even aware of how they came to be lying on the bed. Somehow House had smoothly maneuvered them onto it. She felt the soft sheets against the bare skin of her back. Only then did the comprehension strike her that he had already removed her bra.

He was still kissing her neck and moved, gradually, to her collarbone. She smiled as she realized that a gentle humming was coming from his throat and the deep, lovely baritone notes he was making resonated through her nerve fibers, heightening her senses.

She became dimly aware that she was making noises too. She'd heard of some religious sects speaking in tongues when they were in the throes of a spiritual awakening. In the same way, she was giving voice to her sensual awakening during the throes of her rising passion.

House's hands gently massaged her breasts, caressing them and tickling the nipples with his thumbs. Cuddy began reaching for the tail end of House's t-shirt, wanting to remove it so that she could feel his warm chest against her hardened nipples.

House grabbed her hands, stopping them mid-task. He momentarily leaned back, stripping the shirt off of himself. He then took both her hands in one of his own and stretched them up and over her head.

Cuddy remembered reading somewhere that people in positions of power liked to be mildly subjugated during their sexual encounters. In all her time as head of Princeton Plainsboro, she had never met anyone brash enough to even attempt to dominate her. But that was because she had never given the cocky son-of-a-bitch who was now moving over her a try.

A thrill spread through her, like a million fireworks exploding along every one of her nerve endings when she felt her erect nipples brushing against his bare chest as he lowered himself upon her again. She raised her arms in a less than half-hearted attempt to escape his grasp and was immediately rewarded by a slight increase in pressure from his hand.

Cuddy moaned loudly and wriggled her body under House's weight, feeling the exciting sensation of her breasts jiggling against the hair of his chest.

House moved his free hand down her neck, caressing the curves of her ample breasts and further along the line of her torso. His mouth followed the work of his hands and Cuddy's respiration increased as she felt his tongue gently circling her nipples before giving each of them a gentle nip.

Abruptly he removed his hand from her stomach and placed it against her left thigh. Cuddy felt her legs automatically part at his gentle touch, craving his ascent under her skirt, against her stockings to her bare legs and her already moist opening beyond.

She curved her lower back, tilting her pelvis up toward his long, elegant fingers. He gently brushed the hair between her legs and the two of them moaned together in escalating need.

Suddenly, she felt him stop and lean back. She opened her eyes to look up at him. House was grimacing slightly, his eyes closed as if in pain, a myriad of emotions running across his face.

"No," he said. "This isn't right. You deserve better, so much more than . . ." House opened his eyes.

Cuddy again saw the fear and the terrific pain that he was in. But she also saw tenderness and longing, passion and acceptance, desire and love.

His eyes met hers. "This isn't what you want," House whispered.

"House," Cuddy looked up into the deep blue of his eyes. She took her hand and laid it gently against his cheek. House's whole frame trembled at the contact.

"I can't remember when I've wanted anything or anyone more." And then she wrapped her fingers around his neck, bringing his face down to her own to kiss him deeply. Their tongues moved together and then separated, each stroking the inside of the other's mouth.

House couldn't help but gasp. He moved his right hand down her torso again to unzip her restrictive skirt. Using both hands, he yanked it down over her hips and off her legs, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor.

His eyes filled with yearning at the sight now lying before him. Lisa Cuddy languidly met his gaze from beneath him, her half-closed violet eyes shining with desire. Her beautiful dark, wavy hair was spread across his pillow. Her skin glowed like moonlight against the darker pattern of his sheets. Her full breasts softly rounded with their hardened nipples awaiting his further attentions. Her small waist was further augmented by her wide curving hips from which her crimson thong and matching garter belt now lay above and over his final objective. Her shapely, stockinged legs were spread into a v and as he watched, slowly parted wide for him; only for him.

House looked again at her tiny thong, now obviously wet with her flowing juices. His erection strained against his jeans, answering the primal call of the woman stretched out in erotic anticipation before him.

He stepped off the side of the bed to remove his jeans and boxers. When he turned to face her once more, he heard Cuddy gasp. He momentarily became self-conscious as he saw her hungry expression devouring his naked body.

Kneeling on the edge of the bed, House placed his hands on either side of Cuddy's waist. Dipping his head low, he began kissing her left ankle just above her stiletto pumps, slowly taking them off as he continued moving up her calf to her knee.

Cuddy threw her left leg over House's shoulder as he began kissing her thigh. Her hips took on a life of their own, vigorously rotating in mounting desire. She moaned loudly when she felt his hot breath against her thong and felt another gush of juices further wet the flimsy material as House leisurely pulled it to one side, out of his way.

Her hips stilled momentarily and the only sounds Cuddy could hear were her own labored breathing and the frantic pounding of her heart as if it were a wild bird beating against the bars of its cage to free itself.

She was just going to open her eyes and look down at House to see why he had paused, when she felt his lips begin to suck at her. Cuddy screamed. Her first orgasm hit her with little warning as she began frantically gyrating her hips once more.

House was making low, masculine sounds and the vibrations spurred her on. Her whole body shook with pleasure, her breasts heaving and her pelvis dripping while House took both his hands to firmly clasp her ass, tilting her forward to continue his feast.

Hard on the heels of her first orgasm, she felt her second one straining to break its tether. Her breath was coming only in gasps and so many sounds were emanating from her lips she could hardly differentiate what she was saying. She knew she was repeating "House" very often but thrown in were just as many "Oh God's" and "Oh Greg's" and countless other more guttural expositions forcing the realization that she had crossed over into some kind of physical and emotional catharsis.

She could not think of anything in her whole life that felt this good. There was, of course, only one exception. And even though many years had passed since that night in Michigan, she was in great hopes of reliving that experience shortly.

House continued his lapping and sucking while he brought his right hand around. He skillfully pressed his thumb firmly against her sweet spot and plunged his fingers inside her wet and ready core.

Cuddy screamed even more loudly than before, if that were possible, and she rubbed herself against House's lips and wiggling tongue as she cradled his head with her thighs.

As her second orgasm began to wane, she felt him, ever so slowly begin kissing along her torso, moving up once more to wet her breasts and hardened nipples. With his free hand, he pulled her now useless thong off her body, tossing it behind him as he leaned forward again.

When she eventually caught her breath again, Cuddy said, "House?" She spoke quietly as if fearing that she would awaken them both from this wonderful dream.

"Cuddy?" House spoke just as quietly but with a greater sense of urgency. His kisses had moved to her collarbone and Cuddy could feel his hardened shaft twitching along the top of her thigh.

"I want you. I want you inside me. Right now."

"Your wish is my command, oh my mistress."

He could feel the close proximity of his tantalizing goal. The both of them were breathing laboriously, moving in unison as she spread herself wide looking forward to being filled by his considerable length and width. At the same time, his field of focus narrowed, his body keen to move inside her coupling together as one.

"Oh and House?"

"Yes mistress?"

"F=ck me hard."

It was House's turn to groan and gasp as Cuddy suddenly slid her hips forward and up, plunging him into her slick depths in one smooth action as he fought to keep from coming too soon. Cuddy was not making it easy on him as her third orgasm exploded upon them both, her walls contracting tightly on his powerfully thrusting cock.

Cuddy screamed in ecstasy again but the end of the sound was muffled by House's mouth covering her own. He was moaning into her throat, reveling in the feelings that Cuddy's now thrashing form made against the muscles straining in his arms, shoulders, chest and legs. She was like a wild thing that only he was able to tame and he rode out the throes of her third orgasm in unadulterated ecstasy.

When his mouth moved away from hers, she leaned her face toward his ear. His whole body shivered as she put her tongue inside and wiggled is around before nipping him just behind the lobe.

She pressed her lips against him and murmured, "What about you?"

"Not . . . yet," House groaned.

Cuddy smiled and wrapped her legs high around his back. House inhaled sharply as the easier access to her womb began to overwhelm his senses. She continued smiling as his thrusting became stronger, faster, deeper.

Up until this point, House had been controlling their pleasure. But now Cuddy recognized that their usual dance of exchanging power plays was about to land squarely back on her side of the net. She was controlling him now, his excitement, his gratification.

That feeling of control began to make her shudder with her own building arousal once more. Her hips began bucking up into his, meeting his movements, mirroring them with her sensual rotations and pushing. She heard him groaning with every thrust, sacrificing himself for her and her pleasure alone.

As her gasps grew deeper and more rapid, she felt herself on the verge and spoke to him again.

"Come now House. Come inside me. Deep inside me. Come with me, come now my love. My only love."

House felt his whole body tense as he reached the summit. He felt the cool air drying the sweat on his skin. He heard Cuddy's increased respiration as she too, began to peak again. He felt her body begin to writhe in ecstasy once more, joining him as together, they would finally be released.

Her inner walls tugged at him, sucking him in deeper. He could bear it no longer. Every nerve, every muscle, every fiber of his being screamed for release. As he yelled her name in ecstasy his voice was joined with hers moaning his name. Over and over again as he thrust into her, each plunge was answered by her driving body and her exultant voice. He threw his head back and shouted again, this time his triumphant yell signaling his final release.

Their hips pulsed in tandem until, slower and slower they brought each other back to a gentle rocking motion. House at long last collapsed on top of her, rolling off to her right while at the same time wrapping his arms around her, clinging so tightly to her body that she could scarcely draw breath.


	48. Chapter 48

**48 – "Because maybe, you're gonna be the one who saves me? And after all you're my wonderwall." – "Wonderwall" – Oasis**

It took some minutes before their heavy breathing finally began to subside. Cuddy moaned and whimpered with pleasurable aftershocks so House continued to caress her, gradually bringing her down from the heights of ecstasy. She soon became too sensitive for that however and gently removed his hand. House surrendered to her grasp and reached around to secure her even more tightly against his chest.

The sensations of her warm breath on his neck and her supple breasts pressed firmly against his chest were reassuring. He found himself longing to be inside her again but also knew he had to wait for his body and hers to recuperate from their recent exertions.

Cuddy's body eventually began to wind down and she opened her eyes to see that she was facing House's neck as he lay on his back next to her. The steady pounding of his heart and slow rise and fall of his chest were comforting to her in a way that she could not explain. It was as if his life had become so precious to her and so connected with her own that, like their intertwined bodies, she was no longer sure where one began and the other ended.

Cuddy's brain began to race with conflicting external thoughts. What time was it? She needed to get home and relieve the babysitter. She wanted to see Rachel.

As if he could read her mind, House slowly turned to her. "Stay," he said, "Just for awhile." Cuddy found she could not deny him his simple request, nor even that she wanted to.

With her acquiescence came peace. Though she was tired and the hour late, she could not sleep. Her heart beat steadily on with a pounding loud enough to wake the dead and a sentiment so passionate and profound for the man now laying next to her that she could not find the words to express all of her feelings rising within.

She felt as if all her emotions, like a hot spring, were bubbling to the surface. Cuddy was giddy, complete, excited, satisfied, loved and _in_ love. She had long ago allowed herself to forget exactly what that felt like, to be in love. She tucked that feeling, that memory, into the back alleyways of her heart to protect it and to protect herself. And now that the feeling had touched her life once more, she was loath to ever let it go, or to ever let House go, again.

With all of these feelings churning inside, Cuddy was not sure if, within the next moment, she might begin laughing with panic or crying with elation in his arms. Fortunately for both of them, her giddiness won out.

"Wow," she said finally, breathlessly. "It sure does pay to have sex with a doctor."

House had been battling a swarm of emotions himself. Like with both Lydia and Cameron, he felt exposed and vulnerable and those feelings threatened to swallow and drown him.

But Cuddy's matter-of-fact statement cut through all that in the breadth of an instant. He threw his head back onto his pillow and began to laugh.

When House started laughing, Cuddy wasn't sure, at first, what she should do. But his laughter was so masculine, warm and infectious, her grin soon could not contain all her joy and she gratefully joined him. They laughed together like church bells pealing, his, the deeper notes and hers, the higher octaves.

"Just any doctor will do?" House asked at length.

"Oh no, certainly a brilliant and obsessive doctor is best."

They laughed again. House could feel his heart lighten somewhat at the same time as it became full. He wished that they could stay this way, together forever, alternating between making love and laughing. House leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, savoring the floral scent of her shampoo.

"That's probably the first time that you used my obsessive quality in a positive context," he chuckled.

"Maybe that's the first time you put it to positive use."

"Not hardly."

She reached over and playfully punched his arm. He squeezed her just a little bit tighter against his body. Then they were quiet for awhile, lost in their own thoughts.

At length, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, Cuddy asked the question that had been weighing heavily in the back of both of their minds. "What are you going to do about your mother?"

House shivered slightly as if he suddenly felt cold. He shook his head. "Nothing I can do. It's her decision and she's not insane." He sighed. "Maybe . . . maybe it's for the best. She has nothing to live for anyway."

Cuddy pushed away from the warmth of his lean, muscular body. She rested her head on her hand and propped herself up on her elbow so that she could see his face. House's eyes were closed and his face looked drawn and tired.

"What's that supposed to mean? You're not important enough to live for?"

"Leave it alone Cuddy. You don't know what you're talking about."

Cuddy wished he would open his eyes. It was so hard to read him this way. "Maybe not," she said. "But the House I know doesn't give up this easily."

House opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her at the same time. His eyes blazed with a blue fire lit from deep within and she realized she had touched a nerve.

"I haven't given up easily! It's been after 50 years of trying and never being enough!"

Cuddy gently brushed her hand back and forth across his chest as if she were somehow trying to calm a fractious thoroughbred. House's respiration slowed but he took her hand in his to stop her motion. She decided on a different approach.

"Do you think that she came here . . . to die?"

The fire in House's eyes flickered and went out. For an instant, Cuddy saw a deepening sorrow before he turned his head away and closed his eyes once more. He continued to clasp her hand however, holding it to his chest as he sighed.

"I don't think so, I think she only came . . . to say goodbye."

"What if," Cuddy began, "what if I bring Rachel in to visit her?"

House turned to face her again. Confusion filled his eyes and he lowered his eyebrows as he tilted his head. "Why?"

"I don't know," she said. "It's just that you seem to think that family's important to her. Maybe a child can remind her of that, how important you still are to her. Maybe one mother can reach out to another."

House stared at her. For a moment, Cuddy wasn't sure if he would agree with her logic or explode in indignant anger. Quietly he said, "Would you . . . you would do that . . . for me?"

She looked into the depths of his eyes, mesmerized for the millionth time by the richness of their cobalt blue. She whispered, "Of course."

House let go of her fingers and cupped her small face in his right hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Gently he brought her face close to his. Cuddy's heart skipped as she once again breathed in his exhalation, his warm scent made more fragrant from their lovemaking.

"Thank you," he said so closely to her that as he spoke, his lips brushed hers. Then he tentatively covered her lips with his own. His kiss was tender and earnest becoming deeper as he lengthened the kiss. His breathing became faster as he exhaled through his nose while rolling Cuddy over onto her back to slide sensuously on top of her again.

Cuddy's senses trilled with anticipation. She was about to partake again of the sweetest sensation she had ever known. Yet this time, she wanted to take an even more active role in the experience. She wanted to show her appreciation for House in a more obvious way, a very physical way.

Reaching down between his legs, she began stroking him firmly. His immediate reaction was a deep, growling moan as his body tensed and then relaxed, letting Cuddy take him where she wanted to lead. With her other hand, she gently pushed against his chest so that they rolled back together. Now House was on his back and she was on top of him.

She continued fondling him as his eyes closed, rolling his head back on the pillow. Cuddy took the opportunity to kiss his neck, working her way down to his chest.

House's voice suddenly broke the silence. "Did you mean what you said before?" he said, his voice sounding strained.

"About . . . Rachel? Of course. I . . ."

"No," House said, raising his head.

Cuddy stopped all movement as her stormy grey eyes, swirling with confusion, met his. "What?"

House's expression was somehow sad, pensive as comprehension slowly began to dawn on Cuddy.

Noting her change of expression, he quoted her words from before, "Come now my love. My _only_ love."

Cuddy's face softened. House had repeated her words exactly as she had said them. And now he wanted to know if she had truly meant them or if she had just uttered them in the excitement of the moment. She was both shocked and moved at his interest, at his question. But was he trying to play some hurtful game or was he serious? She searched his eyes and found her answer.

"Yes. I meant it."

House's arms wrapped tightly round her once more as he rose up to meet her lips.

"Really?" he said, his lips brushing hers.

Cuddy's eyes grew large as she spoke. "Yes, my love. My _only_ love."

He kissed her just as the last syllable left her lips.

Her hand moved down low once more and found him already hard and ready. She smiled against his passionate kiss and felt him smile back. He relaxed his head back onto the pillow as his hands gingerly moved to her hips.

"Yes, it sure does pay to have sex with a doctor," he said, grinning wickedly.

Her laugh rang out sweetly and his soon joined with hers. But their laughter was soon replaced by other sounds that echoed together in the dimly lit room.


	49. Chapter 49

Sorry about the delay. Extreme activity on the work front and had to put the final chapter to my other story, "Like Rain in the Desert" so a friend could read the conclusion before her important surgery. But this is a long chapter so I hope to make up for the wait. Plus, now that the other story is complete, I can focus on this one. And for those of you who like to read the, er, naughty bits, hold onto your seats because I present you, chapter 49! Positive reviews are welcome as well as begged for. Thank you.

**49 – "Your hot kisses, only make me think of you. Your hot loving, only makes me know it's true. It must be wrong to love you, like I do." – "Wrong to Love You" – Chris Isaak**

Skin on skin, breath with breath, face to face, they began to wrestle together once more. Their endless circling of one another, like two battle-weary fighters measuring each other's strengths and weaknesses had swiftly become a lyrical dance with a mutual objective. Their competitiveness remained intact however as each now intended to outdo the other by giving their partner more pleasure than they themselves felt.

Cuddy straddled House's hips as he lay stretched out beneath her. Her movements were slow and sensuous and her breasts bounced enticingly as she shifted on top of him, near enough to allow him to feel her moist and ready opening but remaining teasingly aloof.

She felt her blood flush through her nipples and rise up, coloring her neck and face. She looked down to see House's eyes shining up at her, obviously reacting to her increasing stimulation and ravenous with his own mounting arousal. As she leaned down to kiss him, her hair fell across his neck and he trembled at the feel of its silken texture.

Cuddy let her tongue play across his lips but refrained from breaching their entrance. His mouth hungered for hers, his body ached to be inside her. At his two most vulnerable points, she was tantalizingly close.

House could stand it no more, he leaned up and grabbed her open mouth with his, plunging his tongue into her gasping mouth. In the same swift movement, he used his other hand to guide himself inside her with one quick, authoritative thrust that started her screaming into his throat.

He allowed his lips to smile against hers as the now familiar writhing began. God, she was so responsive. He brushed his hand across her arm just to set her muscles twitching. Any way he touched her, any where he made contact with his fingers, mouth, or flesh, was like throwing gasoline on an open flame. Cuddy's reaction was immediate and incendiary.

For a moment, he thought she might be purposely exaggerating her response. But taken together with her breathing, heart rate and blood flow, the logical medical practitioner in him knew that she was not. This was all for him and because of him, all his doing. And the realization that her pleasure was heightened directly due to his power and control made him euphoric. Nothing, nothing whatsoever had ever felt this good.

House knew that he had found the perfect replacement for Vicodin. And now, he was just as hooked.

He finally leaned back to take a much-needed breath. Cuddy's mouth, newly unencumbered by his sweet lips, released her guttural scream to rend the air.

As her body and her voice began to wind down, Cuddy moaned his name over and over again between each satisfied breath. She didn't think it was possible but House seemed even more absorbed, more passionate. He was indeed focusing his brilliant mind, his obsessive nature, his medical knowledge and his fantastic, skilled body on one thing and one thing only, her intense pleasure.

He was the best kisser, the best lover she'd ever encountered. Cuddy knew full well that her emotions helped to color her opinions but she also knew that she was still able to objectively compare House to every other lover she had ever known. And he stood head and shoulders above the rest as both kisser and lover.

The feel of his body next to hers as they rolled over together, on top of hers and gratefully, magically, wonderfully, inside of hers, was sending her mind and emotions somewhere into the stratosphere of experience. She couldn't stop calling his name. She couldn't stop calling for all the angels and ministers of heaven to defend her.

In college she had frivolously experimented with drugs. Currently, she was able to have some satisfaction when she had a really strenuous workout. But nothing, nothing, compared to this.

House was the perfect high overshadowing anything else in her experience. He was scent and sound and taste and texture and movement. He was sweat and aftershave and coolness and warmth, hardness of muscle but softness of skin. He was the heat of the sun, the beauty of the moon, the power of the wind, the rolling gentleness of the earth. He was grunting and pushing and fast and slow and lust and love coming together so perfectly, overwhelming her completely.

He was a man. Not some demigod or foreign, bronze statue. Here, in this moment, with her at this time, he was only a man. And from this moment on, the only man she would ever love.

It wasn't just his sex, although right now that was foremost in her mind and experience. It was so much more. House's lovemaking was simply a true mirror to the man that he was. For Lisa Cuddy, Gregory House ran the gamut of human experience and human emotions. He was complicated yet simple, honest and a liar, egocentric and humble, misanthropic and benevolent, miserable and euphoric. He was the full spectrum of dark and light, evil and good, body and spirit, hate and love. And truth be told, she wouldn't have him any other way.

The one thing he would never, ever be was boring. And the one thing she could never feel about him was apathetic.

He was the only man who had ever made her feel like the better part of herself. And as he continued to move inside her, he made her feel whole.

Tears of gratitude, fear and love washed down Cuddy's face. She was grateful because she finally saw the lie she was living by staying with Lucas. She was afraid because she was, for the first time, absolutely powerless in the grip of something greater than herself. And love, because of how powerfully she now knew that she was in love with House.

How different love and being _in_ love were it occurred to her then. What she felt for Lucas was something like love, maybe even love. But it was nothing compared to the heat, the passion, the thrill for the man covering her now, who was hard and strong inside her.

With each of his thrusts, it felt as if she signed her name in blood to some invisible contract that only the two of them could ever see. Was House the Devil and had she willingly given him her soul? As her body moved with his, she didn't know. Nor, did she even care.

If she had sold her soul for this confluence of flesh and emotion and love and death and life everlasting for only this brief moment in time, then it had come cheap for the price. She took her hands and slid them across his ribcage, feeling them expand like a bellows with the hard work of forcing the much-needed air to enter his lungs. She gripped his back with her fingers and his driving hips she enveloped with her knees in her desperate longing to allow him to course through her physical body utterly and completely as he had already done with her mind and heart.

"Are you alright?" House's voice broke the relative silence. "Am I hurting you?"

She looked up at him, his overly large blue eyes were filled with concern. "What . . . ?"

"Cuddy, you're crying."

"Oh, it's not you . . ."

He frowned slightly.

"You're not hurting me. I can't explain it. You just . . . devastate me."

His frown deepened. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes. My love. My only love."

He closed his eyes and leaned forward to kiss her as she came again in his arms.

He rode out her waves of gratification like a sailor steering his sails into the changing wind. When she was sated, he spoke low into her ear, "Flip over."

She looked up at him, a devious smile on her lips as she anticipated the warm delight that this different position would provide.

Cuddy obeyed as he had commanded and rolled over onto her knees, placing her hands slightly in front of her head as she looked over her shoulder at him, tossing her dark hair across her shoulders and fixing his eye with a saucy expression.

With one hand, House maneuvered her hips against him and with his other, he began fondling her lovely round breasts as he half-knelt, half stood behind her.

Just as she gave him her over-the-shoulder look, he rammed himself home into the exquisite confined space that cradled him sure and true.

"Oh God!" he shouted as he felt both her sex squeezing him, sucking him dry, and his own reaction to delving so deeply inside of her.

Cuddy realized that his intense penetration was making her peak again. Her hips and thighs felt as if a thousand butterfly wings were beating against her flesh, both inside and out. Her insides seemed to heave toward him with each mighty push. Her skin felt a resonance, like the visible heat waves rising across a pavement on a hot afternoon. It rippled and rolled forward and out, forward and out, beating in time to the increased rhythm of House's escalating thrusts.

They climaxed together, in perfect time to one another, she screaming his name again and again as she felt the force of his and her own release. He cried out as well as with each deep plunge he drove more profoundly into her honeyed slick depths.

They fell forward together on the bed, murmuring, chuckling, kissing and gasping for air. House leaned slightly to the side just as Cuddy did so that he easily wrapped his arms around her small frame, holding her close to his exhausted body.

His brilliant mind . . . was quite blank. But his tenuous heart was quite full. House sighed heavily and inhaled her fragrance as he inched closer to her.

Like a wolf claiming his mate within his den, he possessively spooned her, innately wishing never to be disturbed nor for any harm to ever come to her or their cohesive position. With that last thought of protecting her in his mind, the blue-eyed wolf closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	50. Chapter 50

**50 – "If it feels this good getting used, oh you just keep on using me until you use me up." – "Use Me" – Bill Withers**

After about an hour, Cuddy slowly opened her eyes. She had only been dozing lightly, treasuring instead the warmth and constancy of House's shielding embrace.

His breathing had evened out quite soon after they collapsed together on the bed and his light snoring assured her of the depth of his relaxation. He had done this before, the first time they were together in college.

Gregory House had always been a night owl and an insomniac. It was one of the reasons why, along with his brilliant mind and voracious appetite for reading, that he was so far ahead in nearly all of his studies.

In fact, his insomnia seemed to be a bragging point with him at Michigan. House liked to talk about how few hours his brain needed rest and how many books he could read in one night.

But when they were together, he was very different. He spent half the night making love to her and the other half contentedly sleeping in her arms and she in his. She knew somehow that it was a sign of complete trust on his part. The feeling of safety and comfort allowed him, for once, to enjoy a deep and restful sleep.

And judging from the sound of his sonorous breathing now, he was enjoying that feeling again.

Only something as important as her love for her child could make Cuddy even consider leaving the arms of the man she loved and whose love for her had just been proven to her so definitively and profoundly. But thoughts of Rachel continued to flit across the screen of her mind moving her to try and slip unobtrusively from House's arms.

"And where do you think you're going missy?" he said sleepily.

"House, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. But I have to get home. I need to say goodnight to Rachel."

House sighed heavily and rolled to the side, allowing Cuddy to sit up and reach for her clothing. Reluctant to surrender all contact however, his right hand continuously glided back and forth across her bare back as she leaned forward to pick up her discarded bra.

Eventually, she was fully dressed and House got up and slid into his jeans so that he could walk her to the front door. It seemed every few steps they paused and kissed one another.

Once in the living room, she left him only long enough to retrieve her coat from the back of the couch and put it on, House helping her with the buttons. When the last one was fixed, he kissed her again, so ardently and for so long that she almost lost her determination to leave as her heart acted upon the preferred option of returning to House's warm bed and even warmer body.

Finally, Cuddy sensing that they were making little progress this way said breathlessly, "I have to go."

"I know," he said, as he brought both hands up to her face and kissed her deeply again.

They had made it to the door and Cuddy, without breaking their kiss, reached behind her and opened it. They stood in the doorway, still kissing, neither of them anxious to stop nor to part.

From behind Cuddy, House heard the elevator's bell and its doors slide open. A long pause ensued before he heard footsteps, plainly a woman's heels, striding past he and Cuddy in the hallway.

He broke apart from her then, but without raising his head or his eyes said, "Good evening, Nora."

"Good evening, House," the reply came as the sound of Nora's footsteps quickened down the hall, obviously anxious to get inside her own apartment and ignore the passionate scene playing out in the hallway.

House closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Cuddy's, slowly breathing in her scent, her perfume, the musky smell of their love-making still lingering on her skin.

"House," she said. "I really have to go."

"Okay, but come back soon. Promise me."

She smiled slightly. It was the easiest thing in the world. "I promise."

One last deep, burning kiss and then they parted. By the time House opened his eyes, she was already gone. Still standing halfway through the open door and without turning his head, House said, "Evening Wilson."

Wilson was standing with his hands on his hips just outside his bedroom down the hall. "How did you know . . . ?"

"Oh c'mon Wilson," House replied. "You have all the quiet and subtlety of a hand grenade in a barrel of oatmeal. I heard you come in. And you obviously picked up my jacket and shirt from the floor. I hope our, uh, talking didn't keep you awake?"

"Talking? Since when can that racket you two were making be described as talking? And yes, you and Cuddy's screaming kept me awake. And probably anyone else within a 50-mile radius."

House smiled roguishly at Wilson in reply as he closed and locked the door. "Join me in a celebratory drink?" he said, cocking his head to the side and widening his eyes in an almost innocent expression.

Wilson laughed as he walked down the hall. For the first time in many weeks, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. House's eyes shone with a wit and a radiance, having cast off their recent deadened and defeated look.

Cuddy had obviously brought about this change. It was as if she was the compass by which House could gain his bearings and steer his course straight and true.

Damn! House was almost smiling! In this kind of mood, House could do anything, he could conquer the world. Or at least, perhaps talk his mother into treatment.

Still smiling, Wilson moved over to the bar, picking up the bottle of bourbon that House had left there earlier.

"Oh not that stuff," House said. "You'll want something stronger than that."

"Like what? This is your regular, isn't it? I've never known you to drink something not . . ."

"Hold up," House said and he promptly placed a finger to his lips. Reaching behind the bar, House rooted around for a few seconds and then took something out from underneath the lip of the counter, placing it in the drink that he had deserted several hours before.

"What the hell was that?" Wilson asked.

"Oh, just a little token of Lucas' appreciation and insecurity. There's one in your room too."

"You mean," Wilson had turned pale and muttered, "He BUGGED us?"

"Funny huh? He not only doesn't trust his girlfriend but apparently thinks I'd ravage her in the living room and _both_ bedrooms. Cuddy must have let slip my sexual prowess." A smug smile played about the corners of House's mouth as he said this last.

Wilson sat down on the stool nearest him. "How long have they . . .?"

"Since he pranked us. It was easier for him to keep tabs on us, our conversations and our overnight guests."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Isn't it obvious? I figured they'd come in handy some time."

"But I've had . . ."

"Sex?" House looked at Wilson, the smug smile returning to his face. "Don't worry about your morning glories. I'm sure Lucas has enough masturbatory experience to last at least six lifetimes. And when you had overnight guests, maybe Cuddy was able to benefit, if Lucas took notes. "

"Wait a minute, you said BOTH bedrooms? The one in your bedroom . . . Do you mean to tell me that you and Cuddy . . ."

"Were broadcasting nicely I would say," House said, no longer able to refrain from smiling broadly. "I think our second round was probably our best. A lot more, 'Greg, I'm comings' and moaning and screaming. Who knew Cuddy could be so vocal? Well, I did of course. But I'm sure Lucas never knew anything about her particular proclivity. Man, I'd love to see his face right about now. That would definitely qualify as a Kodak moment."

"Wow, that's cruel, even for you," Wilson said.

"Have you so soon forgotten the thousands you spent on the bathroom repairs after the opossum attack? And how about the flat screen?"

Wilson nodded in silent agreement. Lucas did deserve some comeuppance after all.

"But what about Cuddy? She's going to have to face Lucas eventually . . ."

"Oh, she'll be facing him tonight. Her babysitter had to leave, some kind of family emergency, so Lucas went over to watch the kid."

"Why did you do that?" Wilson said, recognizing House's controlling hand in all of this. "Cuddy's tired and now she'll have to try to explain herself to Lucas? And if he DID listen in tonight . . . this is a real mess you've created for her. You know that?

House looked forlornly at his best friend, as if he were a child that had wandered into the middle of a movie and had no idea what was going on. "Of course I know it. I WANT her to have a showdown with Lucas. I WANT her to make her choice. And after tonight's performance, I know she'll be choosing me."

"Unless she finds out how you manipulated her and holds that against you."

House turned away but Wilson thought he saw his friend shudder. "No," House said, sounding more subdued. "That won't happen. She wouldn't negate everything else . . ."

"I'll take that drink now," Wilson said as he gestured again towards the bottle. "But why don't I want what you were drinking before?"

"Because," House said, "You'll probably want a real drink and not something so watered down."

"Why were you drinking watered down bourbon?"

"Oh, just hedging my bets in case Cuddy just happened to drop by. By the way, you sent her an email about my mother this afternoon."

Confusion was etched across Wilson's features. "Why did I . . .?"

"Focus Wilson!"

"Are you telling me that this was all . . . just one of your insane plans? This was some elaborate plot to get Cuddy to sleep with you?" Wilson's face turned almost purple with fury as he shook his head, his hands gesticulating wildly. "You're using your mother, your mother's illness just to get laid? Is your mother in on it? Is she really even sick? Or did you somehow fake her medical records?"

House wheeled around to face his friend. Wilson's passion abated immediately when he saw the ferocious look on House's face.

"My mother had nothing to do with this!" House yelled. "She would never involve herself with anything that wasn't completely above-board!" He turned, once again to the bar and sat down heavily on an adjacent stool. He looked suddenly tired, defeated. "And this wasn't for me."

"Who was it for then? Lucas? Somehow I don't think he'll agree."

"Okay, it wasn't _just_ for me. It was for Cuddy too."

"What, you think she needed to get laid?"

House rolled his eyes. "Are you seriously _trying_ to be obtuse?" House said as he took a new bottle out from under the bar and opened it. "Of course, there is a big difference between getting laid and getting laid . . . low."

Wilson took his left hand and scrubbed it roughly across his forehead. "House, it's late. And I haven't gotten much sleep. Even though I got home early, it seems that my roommate's sexual prowess combined with the erotic proclivities of my boss have made sleep impossible. So could you please just give me the short form?"

House smiled sympathetically at Wilson. "Cuddy needed to know I was serious. She needed to know I wasn't just playing with her. She found that out tonight." He turned back toward the bar. "And I found out too . . ."

"What House? What did you find out?"

House's eyes never left the drink in his hand. "I found out that she . . . feels the same way. That she . . ."

"Loves you?"

Even though House wasn't looking at him, Wilson could still see the tears that welled up in his friend's clear blue eyes.

"And how do you feel about her? Do you love her? Really?"

House turned his head slightly. The lights in the room were dim but Wilson saw House's eyes, House's expression. He was looking at him so intently, so earnestly. And Wilson knew. He had his answer.

"Congratulations House," Wilson said quietly as he raised his glass in salute. "Cheers."


	51. Chapter 51

A/N: I take no responsibility for the following chapter. I had planned on writing a nice little segue-way chapter when the characters shanghaied the narrative and did whatever they bloody well felt like. So please be advised, the following contains scenes of a violent nature. If you've not wish to read, please email me and I will gladly forward you a tamed down synopsis.

Not for the faint of heart. You have been forewarned.

**51 – "Take her arms and hold her down . . . until she stops screaming. This crime, I've seen what a man can do. And I would have died from all the hell that you've been through." – "Hold Her Down" – Toad the Wet Sprocket**

Cuddy silently cursed the creak of the hinges as she opened her front door and tip-toed into the small front foyer. There really wasn't any need for her concern. She knew that her entrance wouldn't wake Rachel and Lucas' car parked out front only firmed her resolve to settle things with him right away.

The house was dark save for the dimly flickering blue light coming from the television in the living room. The volume was on low but cut out completely as Cuddy rounded the corner.

"You're late," Lucas' quiet but tense voice carried across the living room.

Cuddy turned on the lamp on the side table nearest her.

"And you're not supposed to be here," she replied. Something about the tone of his voice put her on edge. By the light in the room she could see him sitting on the couch, several suitcases nearby, empty beer bottles on the coffee table and a sleeping Rachel in his lap.

Cuddy's blood ran cold. Lucas obviously knew something was up. He had gotten drunk and packed his things. But to take Rachel out of bed, to make some sort of point, smacked of something else; something like an attempt to use her daughter to try and hurt or control her.

"What is Rachel doing out of bed?" she asked fighting to keep her voice steady as she walked swiftly over to where he was holding her child.

"She had trouble falling asleep." Lucas began stroking Rachel's cheek. "I brought her out here to read to her." Lucas had made no move to hand her daughter over to her which became more and more unnerving.

Cuddy took the last couple of strides to the couch and determinedly leaned over to take her child from his arms.

"She needs to go back to bed."

Lucas grabbed her arm. "Why are you suddenly so afraid of me? What have I done? All I'm guilty of is loving you and Rachel. Taking care of you both."

She could smell the beer on his breath. It frightened her. But it also made her more resolute.

"And right now you're guilty of gripping my arm so tight that you're hurting me."

Lucas let go and Cuddy stood up. She carried her daughter to her bedroom and placed her in the crib without ever waking her. She silently breathed a sigh of relief. She wanted to have it out with Lucas but she didn't want her daughter to be in the middle of it. And it almost seemed as if Lucas did.

When she turned around, Lucas was standing in the doorway, a forlorn expression on his face. Cuddy waved him back into the living room as she left Rachel's bedroom, closing the door behind her.

"We need to talk Lucas," she said as she rubbed the wrist that he had grabbed. She knew full well there would be bruises there the next day.

"No, we don't." He walked over to the couch and threw a backpack over his shoulder with one hand as he picked up a suitcase with another.

"Lucas, I want to explain to you what happened."

He turned quickly around, a look of anger the likes of which she had never before seen on his face. He noisily dropped both his backpack and suitcase as he spoke.

"Why? So YOU can clear your conscience? So YOU can feel better about cheating on me? Sleeping with the great Gregory House and giving me the details? How many times he made you come?"

"Don't make this into something cheap and ugly," Cuddy said. She could feel her hackles rising. Why was he so sure she HAD cheated on him?

"You're the one who made this cheap when you spread your legs for him in his bed. God! You didn't even think, did you? Didn't even give me, give us, give Rachel a passing thought?"

"Leave my daughter out of it."

"That's convenient," he shouted, stepping to within a few inches of her. "Because I'm sure that's EXACTLY what House will do. He'll dump your daughter so fast it'll make your head spin."

"Shut up about House."

"I'm the stupid one. Always believing you when you told me that he was 'just a friend.' Going over to his place to make sure he was okay, not back on drugs whatever your latest excuse was. When really, you just went over there to whore yourself to him, to give him . . ."

The sound of Cuddy's hand slapping his cheek echoed through the darkened house. She had not wanted it to end this way. But looking back on the choices she'd made over the last several hours, the last several months, she saw now that there was no other way.

Tears filled her eyes as she looked at him, all vestiges of affection and respect that she once had for him now stripped away. It was like looking at a stranger, a man she never knew. She no longer remembered feeling anything for him.

The only thing she felt now was pity. She had wounded him terribly. She was solely to blame for she alone was responsible for making him believe the lie that she had tried so vehemently to convince herself of, that she had never loved House.

Lucas saw her sympathetic tears. And they enraged him all the more.

His own tears of self-pity and of loss flooded his eyes as he screamed, "You lied to me! You never loved me! It was ALWAYS him, ALWAYS House. 'Your love. Your ONLY love.'"

Cuddy's mouth dropped open in shock and disbelief. How did he know? What had he done to find out . . . ?

"You bugged his apartment?"

Lucas dolefully dropped his head.

"He'll never give you what I was prepared to give you. He'll never love you, never love Rachel the way I did. He'll break both your hearts because he doesn't have one."

"My God. How long? How long did you have his place bugged? How long were you just waiting for me to go over there? What, this was all just some sort of game for you? Some kind of test?" Cuddy released an exasperated sigh. "It's like I don't even KNOW you anymore. Just get out. Take your things and . . . just go."

"You'll be sorry. This was your one shot at happiness. I wanted to marry you. You know that?"

"Lucas, I'm sorry. Really."

"Save your pity for yourself and your daughter," he nearly shrieked. "Or maybe that poor, crippled, psycho excuse for a lover that you've chosen over me."

Cuddy closed her eyes as her shoulders sagged. It was all too much and she was so very tired. She'd endured such a long day already and the night seemed now as if it would never end. She had gone from the earlier euphoria of lying in House's arms to the unimaginable, gut-wrenching chore of breaking off a long-standing relationship.

She knew she couldn't explain all her feelings to him, nor that she should even try. She couldn't make him understand what it had taken her so long to realize herself. And trying to explain everything she was feeling would only hurt Lucas more.

Suddenly, she felt her arms trapped to her sides as Lucas lunged forward gripping her tightly. Her eyes flew open and her lips opened in a scream that was silenced by his mouth pressing violently against hers.

His drunken charge knocked the wind out of her while forcing her off balance. Her heart beat wildly as she felt herself falling backward under Lucas' forward momentum and his superior weight. All her tiredness was forgotten as panic set in.

Cuddy's head slammed against the hardwood floor and she momentarily bobbed on the edge of unconsciousness. Lucas took her subdued attitude to full advantage, pinning her arms more securely and straddling her motionless body, roughly tearing at her blouse and bra to expose her breasts.

Her senses began flooding back to her as she felt him pushing her skirt up to her thighs and squeezing her right breast so hard that she knew she would be badly bruised. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, commanding her body to action but the shock and pain in her mind were paralyzing her limbs and stealing her breath from her lungs.

Her struggling was hindered further owing to her tight office clothes and Lucas' greater strength. Hot angry tears stung her eyes with the horrifying realization that he was going to do it, he was really going to rape her and she was unable to stop him.

His mouth was still covering hers, silencing her continued screaming when she felt him shift slightly and heard the sound of his fly being unzipped. Her mind began to go blank as she felt him shoving his knee against her thighs, forcing her legs open.

More from exhaustion and shock than from the formation of an actual plan, Cuddy suddenly stopped moving. She felt a disconnect from her body as if she were in a dream, standing outside herself and witnessing what was happening to her.

Lucas' lips smiled against hers in a horrible mockery of House's earlier tender kiss. He'd won. He was about to have her again because she was his again. He relaxed, ever so slightly, and allowed his lips to stray a bit too far across the edge of her mouth.

Cuddy reacted without thinking and bit down as hard as she could. She did not let go when he started screaming nor as he continued screaming while he threw his head back and away from her.

The metallic, salty taste of blood entered her mouth but still she kept her teeth clamped tightly shut, following the motion of his head with her own.

As Lucas pushed himself away, Cuddy's arms were suddenly freed from his weight. She snaked out her right hand and grabbed hold of his most sensitive area and began to twist and squeeze at the same time.

Lucas let out a long, moaning howl. He was completely incapacitated and just as her teeth released his lips, he pitched forward falling face down onto the hard floor.

It was then that Cuddy realized that she was still screaming. But her screams of terror had turned into the triumphant screech of a she eagle as she turned to shove Lucas's prone form off of her completely.

Cuddy was screaming. Lucas was yelling. And Rachel was crying. Pandemonium reigned completely in the darkened house.

She released him and slid away from him completely, kicking off her heels and readying herself for another onslaught. But Lucas was no longer in any mood to fight. He lay whimpering on the floor for some time before Cuddy finally had caught her breath enough to speak again.

"Get out! Get out! Get out and don't ever come back!"

Lucas rolled his head to the side facing her. His face was bloodied and his nose was crooked. He had broken his nose in his fall.

"I'm sorry," he hissed. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted . . . I didn't mean . . . I drank too much. I would never hurt you. You know that. You must know that."

"You already did," Cuddy said. "But you won't ever again. I never want to see you again. Ever."

Lucas slowly rose to his knees and began pulling himself up by leaning heavily on the furniture.

"I have some things . . .," he began.

"Leave them!" she shrieked. "Just get out of here right now!"

Lucas half-dragged, half-limped to the door, Cuddy circling back behind him to grab an andiron from the fireplace. He raised his head as if to say something as he opened the door but closed his mouth when he saw the fierce expression on Cuddy's face and the iron poker she clenched so tightly in her upraised hand. He left without another word.

Cuddy slammed the door to and bolted it as soon as he had gone out and then she dragged a chair from her dining room to prop under the knob. She raced to the back door and made sure it was locked and secured a chair there in the same way. Then she ran through the rest of the house, locking windows and doors.

Finally she raced to her now screaming daughter and picked her up. As she clutched Rachel to her throbbing chest, she realized that her breasts were still exposed.

Cuddy's back hit the wall of the nursery as she frantically hugged her crying child. She continued trying to calm Rachel as she slowly slid along the wall, down to the floor. Her sobs joined Rachel's as together, mother and daughter cried themselves to sleep on the floor of the nursery.


	52. Chapter 52

**52 – "I know I think a lot but somehow it just doesn't help. It only makes it worse. The more I think, the more I know, the more it hurts . . . But I have loved you from the moment that we knew. Oh, I love you. I love you. But where are you?" – "Where Are You?" – Cat Stevens**

House let out a deep, vociferous groan as he shifted in bed. His arm stretched out in sleepy yet hopeful inquiry only to find disappointment within the isolation of his sheets. After Cuddy's presence last night, his bed seemed far too large and far too empty without her.

Late last night he began to fear that he had imagined it all, had once again hallucinated his passionate hours with her and the all-encompassing miracle of being inside her while she held him in her arms. It was entirely possible that his mind had tricked him yet again into believing that he had experienced what his heart and body had sought after for so very long.

Those thoughts raged on in his brain until the moment his head hit the pillow. There, the reality of his memory was validated by the unmistakable scent of her still clinging stubbornly to his sheets. And he was finally able to drift off to sleep by inhaling the fragrance of her perfume and wrapping himself in the warmth of his reminiscence of her body's movements beneath him and the refuge of her warm embrace.

Opening his eyes, he groaned again in a useless attempt to deny the mounting pain in his right leg and the increasing daylight peaking through his blinds, signaling the start of another workday.

He levered his tongue against the cotton-like feel of his cheeks, swallowing to try and purge the dustiness from his mouth. Why did he drink so much with Wilson last night? Wilson had always been a lightweight when it came to booze so it wasn't like he had to try and prove anything.

But he had had too much anyway, and had kept drinking long after Wilson stumbled off to bed. The truth was, after Cuddy's departure, his insomnia had come crashing back upon him. He couldn't sleep. His thoughts kept spiraling out of control.

House had been put particularly ill at ease after Wilson made his suggestion that Cuddy might have trouble with Lucas when she returned home.

From the beginning, House figured he had Lucas pegged. Lonely, twitchy little guy, socially inept, nervous around women, unable to lie or smooth talk his way out of trouble which was why private investigation seemed such an odd choice of vocation. Lucas was weird, but basically a harmless sort of guy.

He had Lucas' number all right. That was until the nasty practical joking began. House had obviously underestimated Lucas. He had not thought him capable of the depths to which he sank in order to punish Wilson and himself about the loss of Cuddy's "dream condo."

If he hadn't seen that coming, what else might he be set up to miss? If Lucas got his panties in a bunch over a lousy condo, how would he react to he and Cuddy's very vocal cuckolding session? House was becoming more apprehensive over the thought that in regards to his relationship with Cuddy, Lucas might not simply bow out gracefully.

Why did he only think of this now? Why couldn't he have considered the possible darker consequences of his actions before he did them? Was he really so selfish?

Where his heart was involved, probably so. It wasn't enough for him to simply win Cuddy's affections. For House, there would be no rest unless he completely annihilated his competition, in this case, Lucas.

He had at one time, considered Lucas a friend. While Wilson had been shunning him for months, Lucas was someone to talk to, commiserate with, get drunk with. And finally, the two men shared a romantic interest in one, Lisa Cuddy.

House had not been overly concerned at first. After all, he had known Cuddy a lot longer, her likes, her dislikes. However, the length of time he had known Cuddy also worked against him. She also knew him, his moods, his drug addiction, his erratic and oftentimes irresponsible behavior.

But Lucas was, well, his awkward self. Surely Cuddy would see nothing in him?

He had been wrong, so very wrong. His mental breakdown last year frightened Cuddy. How could it not? Everything they'd ever shared together, their long term but tenuous friendship was precariously perched on the edge of a knife. Just one breath, one push along one side or the other . . .

And that was when Lucas took hold of the knife and stabbed House in the back with it. Cuddy had needed someone steady, reliable, handy, and Lucas was right there ready to take up the slack and act the perfect boyfriend to Cuddy and attentive babysitter to Rachel.

While House was locked away shrieking in horror and pain from with his hallucinations and Vicodin detox, Lucas was laying the groundwork for his assault. When House was released but still struggling to balance the increased pain with the return to his old life, Lucas had convinced a reeling Cuddy of his supposed merits. And by the time House realized who he really wanted in his life, Lucas had stolen her away, taunting House with his exploits besides.

The fact that they had once been friends of a kind made his betrayal that much more difficult to bear.

There had been a lot of things that House had missed when it came to Lucas. Had he been so desperate for human contact after Wilson's abandonment that he had been willing to overlook so many of Lucas' faults? Or was it his own warped personality that brought the worst out in Lucas as it did with so many others?

But a testosterone-fueled competition was vastly different from a romantic break-up. If Lucas wanted to seek revenge, surely he would place the blame squarely upon House's shoulders and not take his resentment out on either Cuddy or Rachel?

No, certainly Lucas would not stoop so low as to hurt Cuddy's daughter. House instinctively knew that he could never overlook someone's inclination to hurt a child. Having been on the receiving end of abusive behavior from such a young age himself, House knew that he was overly-sensitive to that particular human defect.

But Lisa Cuddy might well be fair game.

He needed to get to work. He needed to see her as soon as possible. He needed to gauge her reactions. But mostly, he needed to look into her eyes.

He knew that just one look would tell him everything he needed to know, just as her eyes had so clearly spoken wordless volumes to him last night.s

He both had to see her and was afraid to face her. What if Wilson was right? What if she found out about his subterfuge and held it against him? How would she feel about him then?

House turned his head to the side, stretching his neck to relieve the tension as he slid to the side of the bed. His right hand groped the nightstand searching for his morning pills. After dry swallowing a few, he tried to stand up. It took him three tries to finally rise, his leg cramping in response to the night's exertions and his lack of sleep.

He slowly limped to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. His eyes drifted down to register the clock set into the microwave as he drank orange juice from the container.

Damn! Later than he wanted it to be. This morning he was somewhat anxious to get to work, to see Cuddy, to touch base with her and make sure she was all right and still his and his alone.

House moved quickly from the shower to getting dressed to leaving the loft. He promised himself a long, hot bath later to give his leg the proper soaking it deserved and was even now, crying out for.

He checked his cell on the way out and noticed that Wilson had already left him three voicemail messages. Three was a little excessive for this time in the morning, even from Wilson. But he decided to wait until he got to Princeton Plainsboro and see Wilson face-to-face. Besides, he really wanted to see Cuddy first before he saw or spoke to anyone else.

Though it was still cold and it had snowed a little the night before, the streets were clear. Last night's dry flurries had quickly blown off the roads without accumulating and the few ice patches on the streets had melted under the glare of the late morning sun.

House cranked the motorcycle to life. He needed to feel the bike's quick response to his movements this morning. He needed the cold fresh air to clear his head and help him think. But mostly, he needed to straddle something beautiful and reactive to remind him of someone else beautiful and responsive from last night.

The trip to PPTH passed quickly within a haze of recollection, worry, speed, sharp wind and engine's roar. He popped a couple more pills on his way inside the building as his leg's pain level ratcheted up several more notches from exposure to the cold air.

His nerves at finally seeing Cuddy in the cruel light of the morning after weren't helping his pain level either.

Glancing over as he checked his messages at the admitting desk, he saw that the lights in her office were off, shrouding it in darkness. An uncanny feeling of dread swept through him, flowing into his leg and making him nearly double over with pain.

"Dr. House. Are you alright?" Nurse Brenda was standing up from behind the desk. She'd followed his perturbed gaze to Dr. Cuddy's empty office and then she'd seen him visibly wince from pain, undoubtedly from a cramp in his bad right leg.

"I'm fine," House growled. "Where's Dr. Cuddy?"

Brenda quickly remembered herself and her duty to her boss. She also recalled House's invariable aversion to anything smacking of pity.

"She called in sick today," she said as she sat back down in her chair, trying to be nonchalant.

"Sick? Whadaya mean sick? She was perfectly fine yesterday. Is she sick? Or her kid sick? Or her babysitter?"

"Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy gave me no further details. She simply said that she wasn't feeling well and asked me to reschedule her appointments as she was taking a personal day."

Brenda had begun shuffling papers on her desk, trying to look officious rather than worried. She knew that if she looked at House, he would see through her right away so she avoided his eyes and his expert scrutiny.

"Is she . . . okay?"

The simple honesty of his question threw her off. She looked up to see his azure gaze boring into her. He was actually concerned. No, it was more than that. He was worried. Really worried.

He knew something, but what, she could not tell. He suspected trouble. And if Dr. Cuddy was in trouble, and judging from the sound of her voice on the phone this morning, Brenda felt certain that she was, then she could do worse than to have Dr. House checking up on her. He, at least, was most assuredly on her side.

"I don't think so Dr. House. I really don't know, but I don't think so."

Just then, the elevator doors opened and Wilson came striding into the lobby. He had been heading for the clinic but when he saw House, he quickly turned his steps toward his friend.

"Don't you even bother to check your voicemails?" he asked sternly.

"Where's Cuddy?"

"That's what I've been trying to call you about. She didn't come in today."

Brenda looked suspiciously from the head of oncology to the head of diagnostics. What did these two friends of Dr. Cuddy's know? There was a strained air of guilt wafting off the both of them and while it might have been normal emanating from House, Wilson's obvious involvement made it even more ominous.

House turned back to Brenda. She noted that his eyes were filled with a tangible fear as he asked:

"Is she at home?"

"Yes Dr. House."

"If my team needs me, they can reach me on my cell."

"I'll drive," Wilson said.

"Like hell you will," House returned. "I'm taking the bike. It'll be faster."

"Fine. Then I'll follow you. Just let me get my coat."

"I'm going Wilson. NOW. You can follow when you're good and ready."

With that, he turned and limped quickly out the front doors, relying once more on the fleetness of his motorcycle to carry him quickly to Cuddy's side.


	53. Chapter 53

**53 – "****We've given each other some hard lessons lately, but we ain't learnin'. We're the same sad story, that's a fact. One step up and two steps back." – "One Step Up" – Bruce Springsteen  
**

Wilson abandoned the idea of running back upstairs to grab his coat. House was moving fast and Wilson followed the urge of sticking to him as closely as possible.

Of course House did not make it easy on him. Once on his motorcycle, he rode as if he were Steve McQueen fleeing the Nazis in "The Great Escape." He ignored road signs and stoplights and weaved precariously through the narrowest of pockets between cars and trucks. Wilson wasn't sure if House would make it to Cuddy's in one piece or if he would have to accompany his friend back to the hospital in an ambulance.

His heart leapt into his throat for the fourth time as yet another horn blared at the dangerously careening bike. He saw the motorcycle nearly get clipped as House cut off yet another car. There was just no way for Wilson to keep pace. He decided that the best course of action would be to drive as quickly and safely as he could and hope that he wouldn't have to pick up House's wrecked bike or broken body along the way.

Cuddy had just finished putting her daughter down for a late morning nap. The locksmiths left after changing the dead bolts on her front and rear doors. She called them first thing in the morning and got them over to the house right away with the promise of additional money. No matter the cost, she was not going to spend another night like she had just experienced, terrified by every creak and sound that Lucas had returned to finish what he began.

After getting a late start to her day and finally alone once more, Cuddy decided to forego her usual morning yoga routine for an extra long shower instead. Her tears started as soon as the hot water hit her and she stood under the searing spray for at least 40 minutes before she even began to shampoo her hair.

She kept playing everything over in her mind to see if she could have somehow done things differently. Cuddy realized that House's mental collapse had sent her own life spinning out of control. Unfortunately for them both, she had chosen to draw strength from Lucas to steady her because she was afraid of House's fragility.

They had missed so many things, were both guilty of ignoring all the red flags and danger signals. Like a circus trapeze act, Cuddy had released the bar just as House was in total freefall. And she let Lucas catch her.

It wasn't entirely her fault. Lucas had been charming and helpful at first. The fact that she would forever associate him with House, as House's friend, was another, very positive element in his favor.

But she had ignored the continuing breakdown in their relationship along with the growing favoritism and affection she felt toward House. And that reality, in the end, was completely her responsibility. How she didn't realize Lucas' true hidden nature, and even more importantly, how House, who saw nearly everything, missed it as well, was beyond her comprehension.

She eventually turned the water off and padded barefoot into her bedroom, her wet hair and her body wrapped in large, fluffy towels. Cuddy chose a cotton sports bra and soft, velour track suit to wear as anything more constrictive would aggravate her bruised, sensitive breasts.

The doorbell's ring made her nearly jump out of her skin but she calmed herself with the realization that it was broad daylight and a heavy, locked front door stood between her and whoever was on the other side. She went to the living room and retrieved the iron poker however, just for some additional muster to her confidence level.

She couldn't remember ever being more thankful to see House than when she peered through the door's peephole. She rushed to unlock the new bolt and chain and swung the door wide.

House stood there, a curious expression on his face. They both gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, House, just relieved to see her standing there and Cuddy, more grateful to see him than she could put into words.

"You're taking a personal day?" House said.

"House . . . ," Cuddy began, the strange gruff quality of her voice surprised them both. She was still somewhat hoarse from her night of screaming and crying.

"Are you . . . all right?" His gaze swept her body from head to toe, and his assessment seemed to add to his distress.

She derived a deep, abiding comfort from the all too familiar sight of him. Clad in his jeans and leather jacket and leaning heavily on his cane, his tall, lanky frame filled her doorway. His unforgettable blue, blue eyes, the comforting sound of his voice, his hand moving forward to gently touch her on the arm suddenly filled Cuddy with an overwhelming sense of easiness.

"I am now," she said as she could no longer hold herself back. Just as House stepped inside, she threw her arms around him and began to sob without inhibition.

House reached behind him and closed the door. Then he began stroking her hair as he tenderly kissed the top of her head.

"What is it? What happened? Cuddy?"

"Don't . . . want . . . to talk . . . now. Just . . . hold me," she sobbed and sputtered.

House knew that his leg would make him pay later but he scooped her up into his arms and painfully limped to the nearby sofa in the living room. He gently placed her there and then took the crocheted throw from the back of the couch and covered her with it.

"Don't . . . go . . . please," she said.

House sat down next to her shaking body. "I'm not going anywhere. You can't get rid of me that easily."

She peeked up to see him looking at her, his eyes full of emotion, a slight, reassuring smile on his lips.

She reached up to stroke his cherished face. But just as her hand neared his cheek, he turned and gently took hold of her arm.

"What's this?"

Cuddy quickly removed her hand, bringing her arm close to her body and covering it with the throw.

"What's what?" she replied, no longer able to meet his unremitting stare.

"You know what," he said. "Your wrist is bruised. Did he . . . what did he do to you?" House's voice had dropped. He was barely audible.

Cuddy began to breathe faster. Why couldn't House understand that she just needed him to be here? To stay with her? She didn't want him leaving and she particularly didn't want him going after Lucas. They had obviously both misjudged him and what he was capable of and she didn't want House to get hurt in some sort of stupid, male quest for revenge.

"I'm okay. I don't want to talk about it. He's gone. He's not coming back."

House narrowed his eyes. "That didn't answer my question."

Gently, he began to remove the throw he'd placed over her. She knew that she could not keep him from the truth any longer so she did not resist.

Slowly, he began unzipping the light top she was wearing. When he had lowered it to just under her cleavage, she heard him intake a large gasp of air and then slowly breathe out in a long, angry hiss.

"He did this? Last night?"

Tears welled up in her eyes again. She couldn't speak. She didn't know what to say to him.

"Ppplease House. Just . . ." her words were cut off by a series of gut-wrenching sobs.

"Okay. Okay," House whispered. He leaned forward and gently took her shaking body in his arms. He kept stroking her hair and gently kissing her as she continued weeping.

"I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you, ever again."

Cuddy clung to him, inhaling the smells of leather, bourbon, cigars, motorcycles and his own, unique masculinity. And she found great comfort in them.

Just as her tears and trembling began to wind down, the doorbell rang.

Cuddy jumped her heart racing. She tried to get up off the couch.

"It's okay," House said. "I'm sure it's just Wilson. He drives like my grandmother, much slower than me."

Not completely reassured, Cuddy nodded, the knuckles of her hand turning white as she clasped the throw, raising it to her neck. When House went to stand up, she grabbed his arm.

"No," she said.

He took his hand and gently touched her face. "It's okay. I'll just let Wilson in. That's all. I'll be right back." And then he leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead.

Cuddy pressed herself into his lips, into his warmth. She lay back down against the arm of the sofa. She suddenly felt very tired.

House limped to the door and made sure it was Wilson on the other side before letting him in.

"How is she?" Wilson asked.

"I was just trying to ascertain that," House said, sounding slightly miffed. Sometimes his best friend's timing was dubious.

"House?" Cuddy's hoarse voice called from the living room. Wilson's eyes opened wide in alarm and concern as House silently mimed for him to stay calm.

House reentered the living room, Wilson at his side. When Wilson saw Cuddy on the couch with a blanket over her, he nervously pulled his hand through his thick hair.

"Cuddy, we were so worried. How are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm doing better Wilson," she said as she turned to look affectionately at House. "I'm doing better now."

"What happened to you?"

"I don't want to . . . "

"Cuddy," House interjected gently. "Wilson and I are here now. We're not going to let anything happen to you. You can tell us." He paused for a moment. "You have to tell us. You know how Wilson is. He's like a damn bulldog. He can never let anything go."

Cuddy smiled at House's attempt at brevity. She could always rely on him to make her smile in any situation. He'd somehow been able to do that the day she lost her first adoption, when she had lost Joy.

And now, after one of the most wonderful, terrible nights she could ever remember, he was doing it again. House would always be the same, she could rely on that and somehow that thought brought her peace.

"Lucas had been drinking. He was drunk by the time I got home. He was holding Rachel who was asleep but I was able to take her into her bedroom." Cuddy sighed, her slim shoulders rising and falling dramatically with the effort. It felt right to tell her two best friends what had happened, it was cathartic.

"His bags were already packed. He knew, somehow he knew what had happened between you and me, House. _Exactly_ what happened, what was said." The color rose to her cheeks as she dropped her gaze. "He admitted he bugged your condo Wilson."

It was a good thing that Cuddy was studying the floor. She missed the uncomfortable looks House and Wilson exchanged with each other.

"It was like I didn't know him anymore. I guess I really never knew him. I told him to leave and he . . . he . . ." Cuddy's lower lip began to tremble as she fought to control herself.

House stepped closer and Wilson followed. House's voice was gentle and quiet as he asked, "Did he force you to . . .?"

"No."

Both House and Wilson sighed with relief.

"He tried to and I was able to fight him off. It was like he snapped. He was . . ." Cuddy began to cry in earnest once more.

House quickly closed the distance between himself and the couch. He sat down on the edge and enveloped her in his arms.

"And Rachel?" Wilson asked.

"She's fine. I just put her down for a nap a little while ago."

Wilson placed both hands on his hips. "Well thank God! I was so worried. We were both so worried after last night. And then when you didn't come in this morning . . ."

Cuddy drew away from House and looked uncertainly at Wilson. "Why did you worry last night? Did you come home while House and I, while we . . ."

Wilson glanced sideways at House who looked away but before he did, Cuddy saw something else behind his eyes. Not just anger or fear, it looked like . . .

"House? Why do you feel guilty? You didn't know Lucas was going to do this. You didn't know . . ."

Cuddy's eyes grew rounder as her mouth opened in horror. "Did you know? Did you know that he bugged the condo?"

House bestowed on Wilson a sidelong glare that told Cuddy everything she needed to know.

"Cuddy . . . believe me. I didn't know that he'd do anything to hurt you. I would never have allowed him to hurt you. You've gotta believe me. Please."

Cuddy pushed him away, nearly shoving him off the couch. She brought her knees up to her chest, cradling herself under the blanket as she began to rock back and forth, vainly attempting to comfort herself as she suddenly felt chilled to the marrow of her bones.

"Get out. Get outta my house," she whispered.

House closed his eyes. "Cuddy . . . please . . ."

"Get away from me! You thoughtless, selfish child! Get out!"

House bowed his head but raised his eyes to her face. They were edged with silver tears as he saw Cuddy's flushed features and the thick tears streaming down her cheeks once more. Slowly he turned, and without another word, hobbled painfully out of the door, closing it to behind him.


	54. Chapter 54

**54 – "Cause I remember all the times I tried so hard and you laughed in my face 'cause you held the cards. I don't care anymore." – "I Don't Care Anymore" – Phil Collins**

How could he have been so stupid? Of all the things he could have done and said why had he done that? She would never forgive him. Never.

And Lucas couldn't blame her either. There were no excuses except blind drunkenness and complete desperation on his part. And those were pathetic _reasons_, not excuses.

He hadn't slept at all after last night's horrible altercation with Lisa. Lucas had come home, thrown himself on his bed and wept until nausea drove him to the bathroom. He'd spent the rest of the night alternating between retching and crying until the icy fingers of a winter's dawn had stabbed their silver knives through the blinds of his windows.

He couldn't go back to her and apologize. He couldn't go back to her at all. There would be no second chances, no heartfelt reconciliations. There would be for him only loneliness and isolation and recriminations for what he had done and what he had tried to do.

He sat on his couch, looking at a picture of Lisa, Rachel and himself taken by a friend at Thanksgiving. The three of them were smiling, looking happy, looking like a family.

His own smile in the picture was a little broader perhaps with the knowledge that even as the photo was being snapped, Gregory House was somewhere on the road engaged in a six-hour round trip drive to nowhere. House had thought that he could easily intrude on the little family scene that Lucas had worked so hard to achieve. How wrong he had been.

Knowing that House would show up to a cold, dark structure with no family or friends to celebrate the holiday and then would have to face the drive all the way back to Princeton alone with nothing for company except the amplified throbbing of his crippled right leg gave Lucas an unholy feeling of satisfaction. And not a small amount of pride at personally being the architect of the entire plan.

Just a little more than a month ago, he had been in the catbird seat and it had been House on the outside looking in. Now he was the one who had been ostracized and it was House who knew the complete delight of holding Lisa Cuddy in his arms, kissing her, making love to her.

With a sudden violence, Lucas raised the photograph high above his head and hurled it against the brick wall of his apartment. The sound of shattered glass and splintered wood carried across the room to the man still seated on the couch. The noise broke through his silent reverie and made him regret this latest of his reckless actions.

Lucas hastened over to where the picture and broken frame lay. He picked up the photo by a corner, tenderly brushing the glass from its surface. After lovingly clasping it to his chest, he returned to the sofa and the easy reach of the beer bottle on the nearby coffee table.

He began to sniffle as the tears slid down his face once more. His reflection in the photo's slick surface gave him a hazy impression of himself, swollen and bruised, with dark circles under his eyes and his nose crooked from last night's fall. He grabbed the bottle from the coffee table and leaned his head back, touching the open neck to his lips. The beer's slightly acidic taste seemed to revive him, to focus his thoughts and his anger.

Lisa was not to blame, had never been to blame. It had been House all along who had manipulated her, had pulled her into his web of lies and deceit for his own amusement. She was simply a pawn in yet another long line of distractions he'd created to occupy his brilliant mind and to avoid focusing on the pain in his leg and the futility of his miserable life.

As soon as he was done with her, after he'd used her for his own licentious purposes, House would toss Lisa aside, like any other game that no longer amused him.

And little Rachel! Lucas swallowed the lump in his throat. House never cared for the child, had only ever seen her as an impediment to his having a sexual relationship with Lisa. God only knew what would happen to Rachel when House casually tossed both Lisa and her daughter aside.

He had to do something but what, he had no idea. Lisa wouldn't listen to reason, not now, not ever when it concerned House. She was too sensitive and tenderhearted, that was her problem. She allowed her emotions to easily sway her. It was her own sympathy that allowed her to be tricked into going to bed with House.

Lucas took another, longer pull on the bottle. He kept reliving last night over in his mind. As soon as he arrived at Lisa's house and found that she had not yet come home, he immediately set to eavesdropping on the condo.

His hands clenched and he ground his teeth as every word House and Lisa had spoken to one another came back to him in almost perfect, agonizing accuracy. His brain created the visuals to accompany the soundtrack as he played back every word, every sigh that passed between the couple as if he were watching a movie.

And finally, the sound of silence as House moved Lisa into his bedroom, undressed her and began to make love to her.

The memory was killing him and yet he persisted. Remembering the grunting, the gasping, the moaning, Lisa's whimpering cry, like nothing he had ever heard before from her. Again and again, her rapid breathing and then her voice raised into a euphoric shout made him double over in nausea and anguish, as if his own body was being pummeled by a huge invisible fist.

And then finally, Lisa's sultry voice, raspy from the cries of her own orgasms, speaking to House, encouraging him with the words, "Come now my love, my only love." Those words had driven a stake through his very heart. House's own triumphant shout of climax minutes later was merely the final nail in his coffin.

He continued to listen as they talked and came together in pleasure once again. Lucas wanted to stop, needed to stop but something inside drove him onward, obsessively monitoring the voices and sounds until the bitter end.

It was as if House, the puppet master, was able to reach inside him and control him, forcing him to hear the seduction of his girlfriend for some insane added pleasure of his own.

Of course House had known. Everything the night before had been an act designed to conquer Lisa, get her to sleep with him there in the condo so that Lucas could hear them. The bastard was too smart to have put on that whole performance and NOT know that the place had been bugged.

That was particularly evident after Lisa left. Just when Wilson and House began talking, Lucas' bug in the main room had gone suspiciously silent.

Damn House. Damn his miserable hide to the darkest reaches of hell.

Lucas realized sullenly that he'd finished the latest bottle of beer. That was okay. He had a lot more where that came from.

As he got up, he continued ruminating on his predicament and his adversary. House ALWAYS caused other people pain while he seemed to walk away scot free.

Only once did fate appear to provide the proper penalty to his selfishness. But right now it seemed to Lucas that House's crippled gait was not enough, not nearly enough punishment for the man.

House needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be severely and irrevocably put down. And it needed to be done soon before anyone else, especially Lisa or Rachel, got hurt.

As Lucas sat down with what promised to be yet another in an unending line of six packs, the beginnings of a plan took form in his mind. He popped the lid and felt refreshed as only the drunken can while adding more fuel to the fire.

He finally got it. He understood. Lucas grasped the essential concept. It was he, Lucas Douglas, that had been injured the most by House's recent game playing. So it was he who was just the right man to pay out life's ultimate retribution on Gregory House.


	55. Chapter 55

**55 – "****'Cause I am the mess you chose. The closet you cannot close. The devil in you I suppose, 'cause the wounds never heal. But everything changes, if I could turn back the years, if you could learn to forgive me, then I could learn to feel." – "Everything Changes" – Staind**

House staggered into the PPTH lobby, where Nurse Brenda's questioning gaze followed him past the desk to the elevators, and up to his own office. The unbearable pain in both his leg and his heart had a mind numbing effect upon him. House moved as if he were on autopilot and therefore completely incapable of changing his course or destination.

As he limped into his office and threw himself into his chair, he was thankful that his department was still without a case. His fellows were elsewhere, probably downstairs in the clinic, and he was left alone to mull over the grief that had taken a stranglehold of his heart.

Bereft of hope and in complete agony of body and soul, House reached for both his ibuprofen and the bottle of bourbon he kept in his bottom desk drawer. It was still early in the day to begin swilling down the burning liquid in earnest. But he didn't care.

He wanted nothing and no one, only the feeling of complete numbness to blanket him, blocking out and shielding him from all else.

He knew Cuddy was right. Of course she was right. He was responsible for Lucas' act of violence upon her exactly in the same way that he was to blame for Amber's death in the bus crash. While House knew he couldn't be held directly accountable, the fact that his actions caused Wilson's crushing loss and now Cuddy's horrifying attack ate at his very soul.

He couldn't possibly be expected to plan for every eventuality but some modicum of forethought or even remorse did seem to be in order. And yet House just couldn't bring himself to do either. Time and again, he ignored the possible ramifications of his actions and when the sh** actually hit the fan, he did not trouble himself to dwell on regret.

For House had done this his entire life, as far back as he could remember. And he obviously wasn't about to stop the behavior now. He knew that his thoughtless words and actions were a preemptive strike on his heart's behalf; better to rebuke those he loved quickly than to wait for them to discover his true self and suffer the pain that must come from another's ultimate rejection.

And what was that true self that would eventually be cast off by everyone he loved the most? House no longer knew, was not sure if he'd ever known. It was someone so twisted and terrible that even as a child, his father had tried to beat it out of him while his mother passively stood by and failed to intervene.

People intentionally hurt, abandoned and left you. Unconditional love? It was a fairytale invented by those select few who enjoyed idyllic childhoods and were too beautiful and good NOT to be loved. Not for him, an old, broken down drug addict with only one good leg and a cynical outlook. Never for him.

No, Cuddy was right to push him away from herself, from her daughter. People ended up getting hurt around him, particularly those he loved.

Because once again, only when it was too late, did he realize that he was in love with her, that he had perhaps, always been in love with her. Smart, funny with a bod too zesty for any mortal administrator, Lisa Cuddy was, in many ways, a major driving force in his life. And he was not only grateful to her for that, he loved her for it as well.

House looked forward to seeing her every day at work and mocking her for whatever low cut blouse and overly tight skirt she'd chosen to wear that morning. He enjoyed their confrontations when her voice would become overly shrill with vehemence and excitement. And during their frequent battles, he often only had eyes for her heaving chest that seemed to rise and fall in time with his beating heart.

He was entranced by her, the way she spoke, the way she moved, the way she smelled, the way the light struck her hair, the way her skin glowed. The closer her proximity, the more intoxicated he became by her mere presence.

Yes, House loved her for the strange, seemingly irreconcilable physical and emotional qualities that made up who Lisa Cuddy was as a person. She was not nearly as messed up as he was, no one possibly could be. But she was fascinating in a way that he inherently knew could keep his probing mind occupied, probably for the rest of his life. And she had already captured his heart.

She was tenacious, proud, capable, smart and even funny. She was strong yet fragile. He'd seen how easily she'd broken when the IVF hadn't worked for her and then later when she lost her first chance at adopting a baby. Like himself, Cuddy's heart was her most vulnerable point. But unlike House, she couldn't hide her fragility quite so well.

A lifetime of abuse and pain had taught House that particular trick. He guarded his emotions with a well-armed militia standing along the walls surrounding his heart. But Cuddy had breached those walls and created an inroad.

When he was with her, he had blinded himself to everything but her. He'd told Wilson how he'd planned and manipulated everything to get her. But he had forsaken all control, all thought, as soon as she showed up on his doorstep. House had been drawn to the very sight of her, moving toward her in his need to touch her, taste her, hold her.

Last night, he had loved her, truly, deeply loved her with everything that he had, everything that he was. In the morning, however, it had been proven that once again, he was not enough.

He'd let Cuddy in too far last night. He'd seen it in the way she looked at him, without pity or regret. She saw him as a man, a terribly flawed but mortal man. House had seen it in her eyes. She loved him.

Had she seen it in his eyes too? Did she know that he loved her?

What did it matter? He had twisted his feelings into a knot so tight that he was bound by an iron chain in which each link of emotion touched another, with overriding pain tainting everything else.

Perhaps he'd wallowed in misery for so long that he was incapable of feeling anything else. Cuddy was simply the latest, most powerful temporary respite for him. Cuddy, Stacey, Lydia, Cameron and Cuddy again, in the end, he simply didn't deserve anyone nor their love.

When he made love to her the night before, Cuddy reminded him of how well they meshed on every single physical level. Yet their physical connection served as an analogy for something greater than their combined sum. For, if it were true that each person had a spiritual twin, then Cuddy was linked to him from time immemorial.

He'd felt her significance since Michigan. And like a large magnitude earthquake, that night they shared together had sent shockwaves through his life for all time. With rolling import, they had somehow both been drawn together at dire events in each of their lives only to crumble, falling apart in the end.

Better to finish it now, let her find out that he truly was a "selfish, thoughtless child" and allow her to end things with him. He knew he would be unable to see the disappointment in her eyes, the slow suffocation of the love that once was there.

For how could he doom Cuddy to the torture and agony that only a relationship with him could bring? He wouldn't do that to her, couldn't do that to her.

One good thing had come about from all of this however. House's face broke into a melancholy smile, his eyes brimming with tears. His thoughtless actions had rescued Cuddy from a relationship with a man with a tendency to violence.

And perhaps even more importantly, his thoughts continued as a single tear marred his right cheek, he had spared Rachel from that same man's presence in her life as well. Cuddy's daughter would not have to endure the kind of cruelty in childhood that he'd experienced.

Perhaps in the end, that was enough. Even if it wasn't, House realized that now, it would have to be.

Wilson stayed at Cuddy's for several hours after House's departure, most of which were spent simply holding her hand and sitting silently near her as she cried. God, he felt so useless!

And so guilty. He had inadvertently let slip House's knowledge of the listening devices planted around the condo. Cuddy had gone overboard when she'd found out. She blamed House for Lucas' attack upon her.

It was all just a horrible accident. Like Amber's death, House was a peripheral factor in bringing about the circumstances. He was simply one element in a veritable "perfect storm" of causes that brought about Amber's death and now Cuddy's assault.

Wilson realized however, that the morning after a violent attack such as Cuddy had suffered was definitely not the time to argue that particular point. Better to let both House and Cuddy calm down before making any attempts at communication or apology.

But Wilson could not get the look that crossed House's face that morning out of his mind. How different it was compared with the way House's eyes had shown so vividly last night, as if they were lit from within with their own, pure, blue fire. House was in love with Cuddy, Wilson had no doubt about that.

And this morning . . . the look that passed between them as House limped out of Cuddy's home was so diametrically opposed it was almost not to be believed. House looked shattered, defeated, deadened and completely without hope.

And yet, strangely familiar. That was the irksome quality of House's expression. Wilson racked his brain to remember where he had seen that exact look before.

And then he knew. He had run into House's fellow, Lawrence Kutner the week before he'd committed suicide. Kutner had the same look in his eyes for a moment, for only a moment, that House had after Cuddy dismissed him.

A light sweat broke out on Wilson's forehead. He made his excuses to Cuddy and left as soon as was humanly possible. He needed to check on House.

When he arrived at the hospital, Wilson thanked Brenda for her assistance that morning and informed her that Dr. Cuddy would return to work the next day. Brenda nodded. But as Wilson started to walk away, she grabbed his arm.

"Please . . . Dr. House. He didn't say anything when he came back. He looked . . ." Brenda's mouth set into a slight frown. "Please . . ."

Wilson nodded and said, "I'm going to check on him now."

Brenda let go of his arm, smiling faintly. "Your superhero cape should be clean by Tuesday Dr. Wilson."

He looked away, blushing slightly. "I'll bear that in mind," he said as patted her hand before he hastened toward the elevators.

Wilson bumped into Chase as he was stepping into the cab.

"Where've you been all day?" Chase asked.

"Running errands. Have you been in the clinic?"

"Yeah, all day. And Foreman, Taub and 13 too. Where's House?"

"Just going to see if he's in his office," Wilson said.

The two men exited the elevator and rounded the corner to see that the lights were off in House's office. Wilson sped up with Chase following. The younger man picked up on the rising anxiety level that Wilson was throwing off.

Both of them stopped in their tracks as they rounded the corner to see House sound asleep in his chair. Wilson breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he ran his hand through his hair.

"Wilson, what's going on?"

"Nothing . . . everything. House is in . . . trouble, big trouble. And on top of everything else that you know I can't tell you about, his mother's coming in early tomorrow morning to let me run some tests. The day before she's due to fly home."

Chase stood looking at Wilson in a state of shock. Wilson never talked about difficulties House was having and for him to do so suggested that not only was House possibly once again, circling the drain, but that also Wilson was overwhelmed.

He was in serious doubts about the best course of action to help his friend. Add to that the fact that House's mother had obviously been diagnosed with cancer and Chase saw that the oncologist was struggling to bridge the yawning chasm between House and the possibility of another breakdown.

Chase closed the gap.

"What do you need me to do?" he said.

The relief that washed over Wilson's face was immediate and tangible. "Well judging from the empty bottle lying near him, I'd say the first order of business would be for him NOT to go anywhere tonight."

"I can keep an eye on him. And I'll hide his jacket. It's too cold for him to leave the hospital without it. And he always keeps the keys to his bike in the left pocket. Anything else?"

Wilson shook his head. "No. That's a lot right there, especially if he wakes up. He already knows about his mother's appointment so I'll talk to him about it in the morning."

"Okay. Then I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. And Chase . . . thanks." He walked into his office, leaving Chase standing in the hallway.

Wilson wanted to wrap up a few things and leave early, taking the rest of his work home with him. After everything he'd been through since last night, he felt that he deserved to leave a few hours early.

Chase turned toward the office just as Thirteen stepped out of the elevator.

"What's up?" she said as she came level with Chase. The two stood together looking in at the sleeping House in his chair.

"House sitting," Chase said. "And possibly . . . a House DDX. Interested?"

Thirteen gave him a broad smile. "I've got nothing better to do."


	56. Chapter 56

**56 – "Well I ain't seen my baby since I don't know when. I've been drinking bourbon, whiskey, scotch and gin. Gonna get high man I'm gonna get loose, need me a triple shot of that juice. Gonna get drunk don't you have no fear. I want one bourbon, one scotch and one beer." – "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer" – John Lee Hooker **

House rubbed his eyes, tilting his head slowly to ease the stiffness in his neck as a result of sleeping all night in the chair. It felt as if a pressure hose had been placed against his ear, filling his head to overflowing with molten wax. His brain seemed to be sloshing about in his head and there was a hot ache behind his still closed eyes.

He knew opening them right now would be foolhardy, judging from the way the light was doggedly trying to infiltrate his eyelids.

Two hangovers in as many days were in no way judicious, not at his age. Though the reasons for them differed, one was celebratory and insomnia driven and the other, tormented and self-destructive, the results were the same. And while House may have been able to keep up that kind of pace in his younger days, he was hell and gone from that once robust young man at this point in time. His overall health would most likely be paying a hefty price for his recklessness, sooner rather than later.

Though his eyes were still closed, the heady scent of coffee floated on the air and he flared his nostrils to inhale more of the rich, smoky fragrance.

"Coffee?" Thirteen's voice wafted above him, blending itself with the smell of the coffee as if it were cream and sugar.

"Hmmm," House grunted.

"Is that a yes or a no? How 'bout you nod your head if it's yes?"

"Because I don't want to have to chase it once it comes off and rolls across the floor."

House felt the smooth handle of his coffee mug being pressed into his right hand. He opened his eyes and his gaze fell upon Thirteen's bright, almond-shaped eyes looking intently at him.

"How do you feel?" she said.

"Don't ask." He exhaled in measured breaths trying to quiet the drumbeat in his head and the throbbing that had begun to strum the muscles in his right thigh.

"Don't you have something better to do?" he said. He wanted to get rid of her. He wanted to continue to wallow in his self pity. He particularly wanted her to leave before his leg pain really came on full bore.

"I'm going down to the clinic but I wouldn't call that better."

House cleared his throat and opened his eyes. He lightly shook his head.

"Ow! Bad idea," he groaned. "Don't just stand there, help me reattach my skull."

"Nope. You're the one who drank enough for it to separate from your neck so now you'll have to perform the reattachment surgery yourself. Unless you wanna ask your neurologist?"

"No thank you. Foreman enjoys the sound of that drill just a little too much."

Thirteen smiled. "Drink your coffee. It'll help."

House obeyed. The warm, pungent liquid ran down his throat reviving his senses and unfortunately, his memories.

"Here all night?" he asked trying to force his own mind to change the subject.

"Chase and I, yeah."

House squinted up at her, a mischievous grin playing about his lips.

"Aren't you moving through my staff a little too quickly? Is Taub next? Or are you not into midget wrestling? Damn, I really need to hire another female fellow. I will you know, as long as you promise to film that girl-on-girl action."

Thirteen stepped closer, an enigmatic smile on her face. She was not one to be put off by his attempts at deflection.

"Who says I'm only going through your fellows? After all, the only reason to sleep with the roadies is to get to Mick." She leaned forward and slid her hand onto his shoulder.

House spilled his coffee on his jeans. He threw his head back in a desperate attempt not to scream as a clenching spasm gripped his right leg.

"Pills?" she asked.

"Top drawer," he managed to hiss through clenched teeth.

Thirteen hurried over to the desk and grabbed an unopened bottle of ibuprofen. Unwrapping it and popping the top quickly, she stepped back to his chair and handed him two tablets.

"More!"

"But House . . ."

"More, dammit to hell!"

She handed him the bottle. He tilted it back, pressing it to his lips and dry swallowed about six tablets. He sat there breathing hard, furiously rubbing his leg as he waited for the pills to take effect.

"Didn't you say you had clinic?" he yelled at her. "Why don't you go do that?"

"House, between the bourbon and the ibuprofen, you're really NOT being kind to your liver."

"Go!"

"Okay."

Thirteen understood all too well House's abrupt dismissal, his need for there to be no witness to his tortured physical distress. The man wanted neither pity nor assistance, not that any help was available to him.

But what he did want had been what, not long before, she had desired as well, a speedy end to the misery by self-implosion. Thirteen had somehow thought that if she caused her own downward spiral and hastened it, then she had retained some measure of control over her disease and over her life.

It had been the man before her now who had somehow pulled her back from the brink. He'd angered and frustrated her, taunted and tempted her to want more, to leave a legacy of something important behind her after she was no longer here.

House's method of psychoanalysis had been unorthodox, as all his methods generally were, but it had been the most successful. No handholding and patronizing statements would ever have gotten her to want to walk away from her own bent toward self-destruction.

His technique had worked, not that he'd ever admit to trying to save her. Her decision to save herself would certainly be written off by him as 'collateral damage' from some other, more involved manipulation on his part.

Yet she knew the truth. Thirteen understood that there existed behind House's roughhewn and misanthropic façade, a truly caring heart. And she felt honor-bound to both defend the man and help him if it was at all within her power to do so.

Thirteen started to go but turned back to him when she reached the door.

"By the way, Wilson brought you a change of clothes. Which is a good thing since even before you spilled coffee on yourself, you didn't need to stand upwind of anyone."

House tilted his head forward. "Wilson? When did he get in? What time is it?"

"After nine."

"Why are you still here?" House said as he continued massaging his thigh. "Didn't you say you were going to the clinic?"

Thirteen smiled again, looking not unlike the Mona Lisa. "You're welcome," she said as she moved toward the door once more. "Oh and House?"

He raised his gaze to meet hers, a guarded expression on his face. But Thirteen saw past his defenses and his pain to the gratitude, reflected in the depths of his bloodshot eyes; for House saw no pity in the look she bestowed upon him.

It was because she recognized a kindred spirit inside the pain he was experiencing. She too desperately hoped that when she had succumbed to her own disease that she could avoid the wretched pity in another person's eyes.

"Your mother's on the third floor. Wilson said they're just waiting for some test results."

"How can I miss you if you won't go away?"

She nodded and still smiling, turned and left his office.

The fact that his mother was coming in for tests this morning had completely slipped his memory. House's mind began making connections and drawing conclusions. His mother's presence and recent illness, along with her refusal to seek treatment so far, had set in motion all the turmoil with Cuddy that he now had to undergo.

His hurt and rejection with one woman had been transferred to another. House rose from his chair, collected his clothes and limped heavily toward the door. After a shower in the locker room and a change of clothes, House decided that perhaps it was high time he transferred those feelings back to where they belonged.


	57. Chapter 57

**57 – "Love and pain become one and the same in the eyes of a wounded child . . . you shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh." – "Hell is for Children" – Pat Benatar**

Blythe House was sitting in a large chair in her room. She was listening to the soft whirring of machinery, the dripping of an IV line in her arm and the low beeping of her own pulse on the monitor.

Greg hadn't picked her up that morning to take her in for these tests and that worried her. James made excuses for her son but he had seemed nervous and false.

Her mother's instincts were keyed up and she felt a sense of impending disaster. It crouched there in the corner of her heart like a wild animal coiled to spring. Perhaps she shouldn't have come. Her visit so far had only succeeded in upsetting Greg and Lord knew he needed no further adversities in his life. And the downturn in his mood had grieved her as well.

She stared at her own hands, the skin covering them freckled and papery, the translucence revealing the blue veins beneath. She remembered those same hands, younger hands, changing a diaper, bathing her baby, applying band-aids to knees and elbows, pulling a blanket over her son's shoulders as he slept. So many tokens of being a mother stretched across so many years.

Did all mothers feel this way? No matter the age, even as she looked at the man Greg had become, she could, at times, only see the boy that he had been. In many ways perhaps, he had remained that boy. And if there was anyone to blame for that, as his mother she knew that she alone must shoulder that responsibility.

Blythe roused herself from her recollections. She looked up from her hands folded serenely in her lap to see her son making his way down the hall. Even from a distance, his gait was more uneven than usual suggesting that this was a bad pain day for him. Greg would, in turn, be even more sullen and angry, spoiling for a fight, either verbal or physical.

He had always punished himself this way, even as a young boy. Failure for Greg had been unacceptable, both to John House and to himself and it always imposed two punishments; the one from John and the one Greg chose to mete out in his own time, using his own methods. Many times Greg had purposely provoked his father, thus killing two birds with one stone.

She suddenly wished he would walk on, not enter the room, make his way to a patient in some other part of the hospital. But in seconds, he was sliding open the glass door with his left hand while his right gripped his cane with steely intensity.

"Greg," Blythe said as she forced a smile to mask her trepidation. "I'm so happy to see you. I was worried about you when you didn't pick me up this morning. James came instead. He said that you . . ."

"I'd rather not talk about what Wilson said," House cut her off more harshly than he intended. Trying to soften his voice a little, he added, "How are the tests going?"

"Fine. Almost through."

"Have you made a decision yet? About your treatment?"

"No," she said seeing him stiffen slightly. "James will send the results of these tests to my oncologist back home. Then I'll make a decision."

"In other words, you're going to let yourself die. You'll just wait until you go home so you can feel safer telling me over the phone."

Blythe sighed. Whatever was bothering Greg, it was obvious that it weighed heavily on him. His shoulders slumped forward with the affliction of his thoughts, the ache in his heart, the wound in his soul.

She was his mother and although she understood him very little, she knew the anguish of the small boy that still lived inside the man who was her son. His heart was broken and he had come to place some of that blame, quite naturally and perhaps even deservedly, on herself. She sat up a bit straighter, preparing for the onslaught she knew was not far in coming.

"Greg, that's not what I said."

"But that's your intention, isn't it? You only came here to say goodbye and you humored Wilson and me with these unnecessary tests because you're going to give up and die."

Blythe closed her eyes. The monitor was beeping faster in response to her increased heart rate. She focused on its sound and slowly breathed out.

"Why are you punishing yourself Greg? What happened? What did you do?"

"What did _I_ do? What did _I_ do? That's right, it IS always me, isn't it?" He laughed bitterly. "Well maybe _you_ should tell me mother. What _did_ I do?" House was able to keep his voice low though he had begun to talk faster.

His mother opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was standing in front of her, tall, handsome, full of pride and anger. But she could still see the injured child in his eyes.

"Oh Greg," she said as her voice broke. "You were born. That's all. You just were born."

House staggered back as if he'd been socked in the solar plexus.

"Honesty. Well, I guess facing your own mortality makes you drop the lies and pretenses."

"Sit down Greg. You want this talk? Then sit down."

House did as his mother commanded. He sat on the edge of the bed nearest her as confusion and pain swirled in his eyes.

After a little while, Blythe broke the silence.

"Your father and I, we desperately wanted children. But after a few years and a lot of doctors, well, we were told we couldn't have any. That's when we started to argue."

House couldn't believe his ears. In all his life, he had never heard his mother raise her voice to his father.

Blythe continued, "We said horrible things to each other, cruel, hurtful things. And then John left for an assignment. He was going away for awhile. I was so unhappy. Your father could be hurt or killed and the last words I said to him were words spoken in anger."

"As the days turned into weeks with no word from him, I became convinced that he would not come back. So I sought solace in the church. The minister there was very kind, very helpful. He listened to me, he understood my problems. He was going through some problems at home too."

"Isn't that sweet?" House sneered. "So you two got together and solved your problems by scratching each other's itch? Fantastic."

Blythe's hand was lightning fast. The slap echoed in the nearly empty room, bouncing off the glass walls and steel equipment.

"Don't you ever talk that way to me again. Don't you EVER make what happened between . . . between us dirty or vulgar in any way." Blythe looked at her son who had raised his hand to rub the cheek that she'd slapped. He was staring at the floor but when he looked up his eyes were full of tears.

They both sat quietly for awhile. Nothing penetrated the silence of the room except for the regular sounds from Blythe's equipment.

"Go on," House said quietly.

Blythe realized that this was as close as her son would come to an apology. She nodded her head and took a sharp breath.

"For awhile, a short while, he gave me peace. And he gave me something more precious to me than that, more important than anything else in the whole world. He gave me you."

This time she reached out her hand to stroke his careworn face. He flinched at her touch but didn't turn his face away. "I'll always be grateful to him for that."

House continued staring at the tiles on the floor until Blythe took her hand back and placed it in her lap.

"When John came back . . ." she paused. "I was so relieved. I thought that maybe, God had given me a second chance with him."

"I already knew I was carrying you. I determined to become the wife John deserved and a good mother to you. I told him . . . I told him you were his, that the doctors had been wrong. He was happy. For the first time in a long time, he was so happy."

House sat quietly on the edge of the bed, the tears starting in the corners of his eyes, his head bowed.

"And then, you were born. You were big for a preemie, all the doctors said so. Of course, I knew you were full term."

"You should have seen your father, so proud, handing out cigars to nearly everyone on the base. He loved you, so much, so very much, right from the start."

House raised his eyes to his mother's face. "Then how . . .? How did he come to hate me so much?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Oh Greg, he didn't hate you. He hated . . . he hated . . . what I'd done," she choked.

"You told him?"

"Oh honey, he knew. Maybe he always knew. But as you started to grow, you looked very little like me and nothing like him. You were thin, tall, handsome. All the men in his family were short and built like fireplugs.

"And your eyes . . . your eyes were exactly like . . . I think he recognized your eyes. And then, as you grew, you were so smart, so inquisitive, you questioned everything." She looked over at him, the pride shining in her eyes.

"Including his authority," House whispered.

His mother's face creased into a frown. "Yes. Seemed like you had your mind made up from the start. But then, so did he. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. But you were never content to follow anyone's lead. Footsteps for you only kept you on the ground. You were born to fly."

House's azure eyes pierced his mother's gaze. He bounced his cane on the floor several times for dramatic effect. "Not much chance of me even walking very far nowadays, not to mention flying."

Blythe's vision misted over once again. She hated to see her son this way, punishing himself, ruining his life by denying himself everything and everyone. Shutting himself away from life and love. But she supposed that that die had been cast long ago as well.

"That's your choice now Greg. You can fly if you want to, if you choose to. You still have your wings. Your mind always allowed you to fly where no one else could go."

They were silent again for several minutes, both of them lost in their own thoughts and the memories that coursed through and between them. Like a cork, Blythe felt herself floating on her reminiscences while House, like an anchor, felt dragged down by his.

"Why didn't you . . . if you loved me as much as you say you did, why didn't you ever help me? You never stopped dad . . .," House's eyes drifted down to the floor again as the tears finally spilled over, rolling down his cheeks. "You never lifted a finger to help me, to protect me."

He looked up again, accusation blazing in his eyes. "And you knew!" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't tell me you didn't know. The cold nights you wouldn't let me in when he forced me to sleep out in the yard. The ice baths . . ."

House shook his head to clear his thoughts. His emotions flooded his mind like bees buzzing around a hive.

"And I wasn't quiet when he first started in on me," he continued. "Later on, when I'd learned not to cry out, you could still hear it, the belt, the stick, the bat, hitting me, beating me until I fell down, until I couldn't take it anymore. House's voice had grown louder with each example, each indictment.

"I loved you Greg."

"Then why? Why?"

"But I loved him too. And I was ashamed."

"Of me?"

"Of what I'd done."

House stood up abruptly. "And I was the evidence of that. I was the living, breathing proof of YOUR shame!"

"Yes. God help me."

"So you loved HIM more? Is that your excuse mother?"

"Greg, please!"

"What happens when you die?"

"What?" Blythe was taken by surprise. His quick change of subject threw her mind off-balance.

"What happens when you die? Is there a judgment? Do you believe in a heaven and hell?"

"Yes," she answered quietly.

"And do you know who hell is for?" House practically shouted at her.

"For. . . for. . ."

"For people who do things and ALLOW things to be done to children, that's who!" He was breathing hard and his eyes were shining.

Blythe put her face in her hands and began sobbing uncontrollably.

"What the hell is going on in here? Why are you upsetting my patient? House, what in the hell . . .?"

Wilson, in all his self-righteous anger had walked into the room. Neither House nor his mother had heard the door open, so involved were they in their conversation, the conversation that neither one of them wanted and yet both knew they would eventually have to have.

House walked over to his mother and placing his hands on either side of her, supported his upper body's weight on the arms of her chair. He leaned forward and gently kissed her tear-stained face.

"It's also for people who are mean to old people . . . and their mothers," he said. He squeezed his eyelids tightly shut, trying to stop the tears he felt rising once more, trying to stop the pain in his leg and in his heart.

When he opened his eyes again, she was looking up at him, searching his face for answers he was careful to keep from her, answers she would never find. He took his right hand and softly stroked her hair.

"I love you mom."

Tears fell from two pairs of eyes as Wilson squared off, trying to decide what to do.

"Goodbye mom." House said as he limped toward the door. "I'll see you in hell."

House hobbled past Wilson and out of the room, moving toward the elevators.

He was so resolute in making his escape with so many tears blurring his vision that he never even noticed Cuddy standing not far away. She had Rachel with her in her stroller.

She had brought her daughter in to see Blythe and had been standing outside the room for some time, witnessing the entire interaction between mother and son.


	58. Chapter 58

**58 – "When the mothers talk . . . now your 'H'ouse is on fire." – "Mothers Talk" – Tears for Fears**

"House!" Wilson shouted as he jogged after his friend.

House was loping down the hall, heading for the elevators. He pretended not to hear his friend's call or Wilson's footsteps getting closer.

"You can't outrun me," Wilson said.

"Astute observation," House replied. He reached the elevator bay and slammed his cane against the button.

"Any other cripple jokes you'd like to make? Wanna make fun of blind people? The deaf? Only they're not so much fun 'cause you can't get a rise out of them. Unless they can lip read."

"What happened in there? What did you do?"

"Yeah, it's always my fault isn't it?"

"Usually, yes," Wilson said.

House turned his head to glance over his shoulder at his best friend standing just behind him.

"Well not this time. This time it was me getting some answers, answers to questions 51 years in the making."

Wilson was astounded. "And you chose NOW . . . now when your mother needs all her strength to fight off this cancer . . ."

"She's not gonna to fight it," House said, turning back to the elevators again.

"How do you know? She agreed to let me run some extra tests. We can talk with her oncologist and decide on a very targeted treatment."

House tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

"Wilson, she already decided she wasn't going to fight before she flew out here." House exhaled heavily. "She only came here to say goodbye and so she could try and clear her conscience." He jabbed at the elevator button again, cursing under his breath.

Wilson rocked back on his heels. He placed his hands on his hips in the now familiar moral superiority stance.

"And you just couldn't let her do that, could you? You couldn't let her have a little peace? Are you so selfish you take your argument with Cuddy out on your dying mother?

The bell rang, announcing the elevator's arrival on the floor. The doors slid open and House stepped on board, turning to face his friend once more.

"Hypocrites shouldn't be given a free pass just because they've decided to cash in their chips."

Wilson's face creased into a deep frown. His outrage at his friend's behavior fell away and pity for him and his complex, wrong-headed emotions replaced every other feeling, every other thought in his mind. His arms dropped to his sides dispiritedly.

"Or just because they're crippled, self-destructive misanthropes either," Wilson said.

House looked up. "Especially them," he replied as the elevator doors slid closed upon his weary expression and his shining, haunted eyes.

Cuddy had arrived at the hospital later than usual that morning. She would have been on time save for the fact that she was bringing Rachel with her.

She had not forgotten the promise she'd made to House as she contentedly lay in his arms. In fact, she could not forget anything that had happened in that "Tale of Two Cities" night; it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Every feeling, thought, sigh and scream were indelibly imprinted on her brain and heart forever.

And even though she still harbored very mixed emotions toward House as the conductor of both her highs and lows of that evening, she could not stop herself from doing what she could to help him.

She hadn't expected to see him when she arrived on the third floor. She hadn't wanted to see him, had purposely attempted to avoid him.

But there he was, first sitting then standing and shouting at his mother, at his own, sick mother. Although she could not hear what was said, the reactions of the two people in the room to their own conversation convinced Cuddy of its painful connotation and of House's renewed vigilance toward self-annihilation.

Cuddy's heart did several gymnastic moves, first upon seeing House and then recognizing him in his agitated state. Finally, as she saw him leave his mother's room, fighting the tears that were rising in his eyes, she felt as if her heart had fallen to the floor. For it was plainly evident that not only had his mother given up on life, but House had as well.

But Lisa Cuddy was not only a doctor she was also a woman in love. And that meant that she was not prepared to allow either of those scenarios to happen.

She stayed outside Blythe House's room for some minutes. She watched as Wilson stopped back to check on his patient, remove her IV and then go down the hall toward the lab, presumably to run some more tests. She lingered further while Blythe recovered her emotions and stopped crying.

Cuddy stepped forward and slid the door open as Blythe wiped away the last of her tears.

"Blythe House? I'm Lisa Cuddy, chief administrator here at PPTH. We've spoken on the phone before and I wanted to come by and introduce myself."

"Really? Um, nice to meet you." Blythe said looking up at her. But her attention was soon commandeered by the small child who began to get restless in her stroller.

"Excuse me," Cuddy said as she leaned forward to release the straps that were holding Rachel in place. She picked her daughter up and cradled her against her chest, supporting Rachel's weight with her right hip.

"And who's this charming young lady?" Blythe asked, smiling up at Rachel.

"This is my daughter, Rachel. Can you say hello Rachel?"

"Lo," Rachel said shyly looking away.

"Well you're simply beautiful Rachel. You take after your mommy."

"Thank you," Cuddy said.

Now that she was in the room with House's mother, Cuddy was at a loss of what to say. She was afraid of broaching any subject that involved House for fear of upsetting Blythe again. Yet, what other reason could there be for 'dropping in'? It wasn't like the hospital's chief administrator visited every patient.

Fortunately Rachel provided the perfect distraction. Wordlessly, Blythe House held out her arms toward the child and Cuddy, with a mother's care, gently handed her daughter over.

At first, it looked as if Rachel was about to become upset at being transferred from her mother's arms to the embrace of this new person. But then Blythe began to talk quietly to her in a sing-song voice and Rachel became enraptured. Her large eyes stared up innocently at the older woman and she began to giggle as she was bounced on Blythe's knee.

"Would you mind doing me a very large favor?" Cuddy asked. "Would you mind looking after my daughter for a few minutes while I check on some paperwork that needs to be done on this floor? I'll be just down the hall."

"I wouldn't mind at all. I'd love it."

"Thank you. Thank you very much. I'll be at the nurse's station. Use your call button if you need me."

Cuddy turned and left the room, expecting at any moment to hear Rachel's wail of discord at being left with a relative stranger. But no crying followed her exit.

Happy and yet a little disappointed too, Cuddy hurried to the nurse's station to check on the overdue paperwork. She also wanted to call Wilson and ask him to give her a little extra time with his patient.

When Cuddy walked back into the room about 20 minutes later, Rachel was contentedly sleeping, her head resting on Blythe's breast as she was just finishing the last words of a lullaby. The song sounded sweet but sad and there was a longing in it for happier days.

"I just got her to sleep," Blythe whispered. "If you want to leave her here awhile longer, I'll look after her."

"I can do that. You can buzz the nurse's station when you're tired and I can come up and get her."

"Oh, I'll never get tired of this sweet baby. She's so beautiful!"

The two women were silent for awhile, both gazes held fast by the sleeping Rachel.

"Why did you bring your daughter to see me?"

"What? Why do you ask?"

"It's just that I know you must be very busy and we've only briefly spoken on the phone. You're my son's boss, right?"

"Yes, that's right," Cuddy answered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"You're also Greg's . . . friend?"

Cuddy's blue-grey eyes met Blythe's searching gaze. It seemed that the younger woman's eyes told House's mother all she needed to know.

"Yes," Cuddy whispered, "I'm House's," she shook her head, "I mean, Greg's friend." She suddenly felt the import of those words, what it truly meant to be coupled to House. And she knew that she still felt, would probably always feel, much more for him than friendship.

Blythe smiled. It was a wise, yet melancholy smile. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Cuddy felt all the blood run from her face. She was unexpectedly dizzy so she sat down on the edge of the bed in the same spot that House had been sitting in earlier.

"Why would you say that?" she asked, half amazed.

"Because of the way you avoided bringing him up in conversation yourself. And the way your eyes looked when I mentioned him. And the way that your voice trembled a bit when you said his name." Blythe paused, inhaling deeply before releasing a gusty sigh. "And maybe, just maybe," Blythe looked at Rachel again, "Because I've been wishing and praying for him to have someone like you in his life for such a long time now."

"I don't think I'm really the answer to anyone's prayers Mrs. House."

"Please, call me Blythe."

"Okay, Blythe."

"Don't underestimate yourself Lisa. May I call you Lisa?"

Cuddy nodded as House's mother continued, "A woman in your position has got to be strong and determined. She has to know what she wants and have the gumption to go and get it. Only someone like that will have the strength to stand up to my son and not let him ride roughshod over her. He needs that in his life. Someone who knows she wants him and loves him enough to not let him go, no matter how hard he tries to push her away."

Cuddy was slightly embarrassed at the direction the conversation had taken. She was still upset with House and she wasn't sure if she wanted to confess any of her emotions, past or present, to his mother.

She simply hadn't bargained on House's mother being quite so astute; or her own feelings being quite so transparent for that matter.

"Forgive me for being so blunt," Blythe said breaking in upon Cuddy's thoughts. "But I'm leaving tomorrow and this disease . . . well, it's convinced me that maybe life's a little too short to beat about the bush. I love my son I always have, even when he's made it next to impossible to love him."

Cuddy was aghast. "But you're his mother! You could never NOT love him. Could you?"

Blythe bestowed upon Cuddy yet another very sad smile. "Everyone has their faults and their breaking point. Greg has pushed me to that point more times than I care to remember. I suppose if I'd given in and given up on him then I'd have proved him right."

"Right about what?"

"That he doesn't deserve love. That he's somehow unlovable." Blythe glanced at Rachel, raising her hand to begin slowly brushing the child's soft curls with her fingers. "But I guess I'm just too old and too stubborn to let him win THAT particular argument. I love him, even though he doesn't know it half the time."

Tears filled her eyes and Cuddy felt the heat of her own compassionate tears stirring in her eyes as well.

"He's a hard man to love. And that's coming from his own mother."

"But he's also easy to love," Cuddy countered. "His brilliance, his mind, his humor, his strength and yet, his vulnerability not to mention that he's tall and easy on the eye with devastatingly blue eyes." All this was said very quickly and when Cuddy realized what she'd just confessed, she blushed and lowered her gaze.

"What did you say about NOT being the answer to a mother's prayer?"

Cuddy's eyes rose to see Blythe looking unblinkingly at her, appraising her, as she gently stroked her daughter's hair.

"I'm not. Believe me, I'm not. He's so . . . difficult sometimes. Especially when he's right and God help me, he's right most of the time."

"Yes," said Blythe, "He's always been like that. Always right. Until he's wrong. And then he falls apart. I suppose he's just been so . . . misunderstood his whole life. His father never understood him and I, very rarely do."

"But you're his mother."

"That doesn't mean I haven't made my fair share of mistakes. More actually, where Greg has been concerned. You're a mother Lisa, you understand what I'm saying."

Cuddy nodded her head. She _had_ made mistakes with her daughter. There were times she should have had more patience with her, spent more time with her, the small, day-to-day failures and compromises of anyone struggling to do the right thing, whether it was as a mother or an administrator or as a woman in love.

"And those are the things that you'll find hardest to forgive. You can forgive your child or someone you love almost anything but it's a real challenge to forgive yourself. Greg's never been able to do that, probably because his father and I never taught him how."

Blythe stopped stroking Rachel's hair and reached forward with her free hand to clasp Cuddy's. "Maybe someone who loved him could show him how, convince him that he's not unlovable after all?" she said.

Cuddy looked directly into Blythe's steady gaze.

"The best way for House to learn that lesson would be for his own mother not to give up on him."

The color rose in the older woman's cheeks. "I haven't given up on him," she asserted.

"That's the message you're giving him if you don't fight this cancer. If you're not willing to fight it for yourself, won't you at least try to fight it for your son?"

Blythe removed her hand and placed it submissively in her lap.

"Now I see why my son is in love with you. Only someone as beautiful and smart as you would interest him."

"How do you know . . .?" Cuddy began, feeling her heart beat faster.

"He came to see me earlier, just before you did," Blythe said. "He picked a fight with me because his heart was breaking."

Cuddy began to interrupt but Blythe waved her off, silencing her.

"I knew his mood. I could see it in his eyes. He's in love. But he'd had a falling out with that person so he came looking to fight with me. Not that I don't deserve it. I deserve his anger and a lot more to boot. But he was hurting so he came to hurt me too."

"I'm sorry," Cuddy breathed. "I'm sorry he hurt you."

"Don't worry about me. Like I said, I deserve it." Blythe raised her eyes and Cuddy saw there a faraway look. "Truth be told, I deserve a lot worse. Maybe in a way, this disease is God's just punishment. Maybe that's why I can't . . . why I shouldn't . . . maybe I'm _meant_ to die."

It was Cuddy this time who reached forward and took hold of Blythe's hand.

"But if cancer is _your_ punishment for not being there for your son, then how can you let yourself die knowing that your death will only punish him more? Please, I know you love him. Please . . . won't you . . . won't you do this for him? Fight this cancer because you love your son?"

Neither Blythe nor Cuddy could hold back the tears. Rachel stirred in Blythe's arms as she whispered, "I'll try."

"Promise me?"

"Make a promise to you, the woman who's in love with my son?"

The tears rolled down Cuddy's cheeks as she said, "Yes. Promise me, the woman in love with your son."

"I promise."


	59. Chapter 59

**59 – "****And I taste what I could never have. It was from you . . . But I'm on the outside and I'm looking in. I can see through you, see your true colors. 'Cause inside you're ugly, ugly like me. I can see through you, see to the real you. All the times that I've cried, all this wasted, it's all inside. And I feel all this pain. I stuffed it down, it's back again." – "Outside" – Staind**

House knew his best course of action to avoid everyone he knew would be to work in the clinic. He had not fully recovered from any of the abuse he'd recently put himself through, not the hangovers nor the arguments with Cuddy, Wilson and his mother.

He felt a need to be stripped of all human contact and all by his own doing.

Thirteen had been compassionate this morning and he'd seen a concerned Chase in the clinic. Chase's sympathies only added to House feeling morose at the thought of what had happened between himself and Cameron. It seemed to him now that his cherished moments with her had been the precursor to his acceleration toward this, his final ruination.

Right now, House would've preferred that everyone treat him like Foreman who, aside from a professional nod every so often, fairly ignored him.

He was a social pariah, a leper to be shunned for his capacity to make all those with whom he came in contact as miserable as himself.

His phone vibrated in his pocket for at least the seventh time and when he finally got rid of his current whining patient, he checked his text messages. It was from Wilson, again. While the urgency increased with each successive message, the meaning remained the same. _"Need to talk. Meet me in the cafeteria. Lunch is on me, have to talk to you. House, stop avoiding me, we need to talk about your mom."_

This last text, however, added a new element to the message. _"Cuddy and Rachel came in to visit your mom. Did you know about that? We really need to talk."_

So Cuddy had brought her daughter in to visit his mother. Why? After everything that happened, after Cuddy threw him out of her house, she still brought Rachel? She still kept her word?

Instead of giving him hope, Cuddy's surprise visit made House feel even more culpable for Lucas' actions. Perhaps Cuddy was proving, once again, that she was the better person.

She was not trying to help his mother for his sake she was doing it for Blythe's sake. And she didn't want to go back on a promise.

How could he compete with that? How could he ever deserve to have someone like that in his life?

His mother was sick and he'd purposely picked a fight with her. That's the kind of person he was, selfish and thoughtless and hard.

It was as if Cuddy was saying with her actions how very different she was, full of tenderness and compassion. She was so very far and away too good for him.

He didn't want to see Wilson. He didn't want to see Cuddy. He needed to get out of there. It seemed like the walls were caving in on him and he was finding it hard to breathe.

Chase and Thirteen saw him leave the clinic but both thought that he was just going to his office. He did go to his office but he grabbed his jacket, keys and backpack and headed for the elevators.

Once through the front door, he limped hurriedly over to the bike. His phone vibrated in his pocket just as he swung his right leg over the seat. Checking it, he read Wilson's latest text, _"Don't leave. Must talk. DON'T LEAVE!"_ Wilson's assistant must have told him that House had grabbed his stuff from his office.

House started the engine and swung the bike around in the parking lot just as Wilson emerged from the lobby into the courtyard. House saw his friend out of the corner of his eye and he gunned the engine, speeding away to leave Wilson standing alone in his vacated handicapped space.

House wasn't sure where he was going. His mind was clouded and his chest felt as if a huge stone had settled there, replacing his heart and lungs.

It was over, done with even before it had begun. Cuddy would never want to see him again, at least not like the other night. And he wasn't sure if he could ever see her without knowing that he could no longer touch her, kiss her, make love to her.

A horn honked behind him and House quickly twisted the throttle to speed up. His mind certainly wasn't on his driving, never a good idea in the more exposed position atop the motorcycle.

He would have to quit PPTH. He knew he could no longer see Cuddy every day moving on with her life, dating other men. He involuntarily shuddered at the thought.

Another horn and House had to lean the bike quickly to his right to avoid a white van. The realization struck him that he was unconsciously heading toward his old apartment. But he couldn't stay there. His mother was still there, if only for one more night.

House cut across a lane of traffic to enact a hard left turn, car horns blaring in his wake in the crisp, cold air. He heard another chorus of horns behind him and looked in his mirror to see the white van cutting off traffic to take the same left turn.

He became lost in his thoughts once more as he continued down the narrow street. He felt so helpless and overwhelmed.

He was avoiding the people he cared about only for the moment. His mother was in his apartment while Wilson would be waiting for him back at the condo. Unless he rented a hotel room, he would have to face somebody at some point today.

House was so self-absorbed that he hadn't even noticed the van's acceleration until it was flanking him. The driver had crossed the yellow parallel lines in the road to his left as if to illegally pass him. But the van suddenly lurched back into the right lane, crowding the bike into the railing that ran alongside the street.

House reacted automatically, opening the throttle while kicking the bike into the next gear. Though the street was icy, the bike responded immediately, propelling itself and its rider through the narrow gap between van and guardrail.

He nearly made it. Just as the bike's front tire hit daylight, its back fender was solidly tapped by the van's bumper, sending it into a dazzling spin. House was thrown forward into the air having gratefully parted company with the now out-of-control motorcycle's 400-plus pounds of flying, crashing metal.

He had time to think of a single swear word and how much landing was going to hurt his 50 year-old body when he hit the pavement, face down. He slid across the oncoming lane which was, thankfully, devoid of traffic and into a nearby alleyway, watching helplessly as the pavement rushed by his helmet's facemask. House came to an abrupt stop when he crashed sideways into some boxes and trash.

He lay there for a few moments or possibly a few years. He'd had the wind knocked out of him and mists and lights filled his vision. There was a roaring in his ears and when breath returned to his lungs after what seemed like a long absence he shook himself, attempting to stave off shock as he slowly grabbed hold of a nearby dumpster to gain the necessary leverage to pull himself up.

As he climbed to his feet, House shrieked in pain. He felt every capillary in his right side open up as his body began to bruise and his right leg protested loudly against this most recent concussive injury.

The van had stopped and the driver was getting out of his vehicle as House staggered back toward the street, removing his helmet and carelessly dropping it to the ground.

His injuries fought with his anger and the specter of going into shock as he tried to keep his body upright. In the end, his anger won out and took center stage.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You idiot! You get your license in a CrackerJack box?" he hoarsely shouted to the approaching driver of the van.

Though his vision was blurred, he could see the man walking toward him. Something about the way he moved looked familiar.

House reached for his phone just as the driver reached him. House's eyes opened wide with astonishment and recognition just as a very cold sensation brushed across his stomach. He looked down because something warm and wet met the hand he'd placed there in reaction to the cold.

Protruding from his abdomen just underneath the hem of his leather jacket was the handle of a butcher knife. House didn't even realize he had sunk to his knees until he felt himself being pushed onto his side. The phone was kicked out of his hand and his pockets were searched.

He lay there helpless and in agony. The various aches and pains in his body became a great cacophony of torture until they seemed to finally cancel each other out. Primeval shock had taken control and House's brain began to lose its uphill battle against unconsciousness.

At any moment House fully expected to feel the blade withdrawn from his abdomen and then hear the sickening sound of rending flesh as he was stabbed again and again with it.

He heard instead a screeching of brakes, the sound of a horn and running footsteps. Then an engine started and tires squealed as there were more footsteps, only this time they sounded as if they were getting closer.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Someone was saying. And then beeping sounds and a disembodied voice asking for an ambulance because someone was bleeding very badly.

Then nothing.


	60. Chapter 60

**60 – "Little light shining, little light will guide them to me. My face is all lit up, my face is all lit up . . . Let me be weak, let me sleep." – "And Dream of Sheep" – Kate Bush**

How long he lay there, he hardly knew. Time had no meaning.

But House was not alone. He had his companions there in the twilight between life and death. There were sharp pain and muffled sound, warm blood and freezing cold that chilled him to the very marrow of his bones.

His mind was clouded, although he recognized the symptoms of his own body going into shock. His conscious self seemed to be swimming against a great tide of darkness to which he was gradually succumbing.

His right cheek was numb with cold and he tasted the metallic, salty flavor of blood in his mouth, an indication of internal injuries. But he didn't focus on that. Instead he wondered briefly if his own blood would freeze his face to the concrete. The slow realization washed over him that he neither knew nor cared.

Voices began to assail his hearing. He felt himself being moved, poked and prodded. Lights flickered across his eyes as his body was picked up and blanketed.

He felt the cool air on his skin as his clothes were cut away and his wounds examined. He was totally indifferent to the sensations of being strapped to machinery and needles being stuck beneath his skin, being lifted, carried and conveyed to who knew where.

House felt the loose connection he had with his own body begin to ebb. It was as if he were a bobber on the end of a fishing line that was about to break and float downstream. He no longer cared what happened to him, to his body. He felt separated and apathetic to it.

He was no longer concerned with the noises around him, the voices shouting, the equipment humming and beeping all clashing together and echoing off each other as if they were occurring within the confines of a hollow tree.

He was in and out of consciousness. At times he wanted to cry out but mostly he only wanted to sleep, long and unbroken and free of pain.

More lights, more sounds, more things going on that little by little had less and less to do with him.

Finally, above the din, he heard a familiar voice. It rose above the rest, commanding and authoritative, issuing orders with an undercurrent of naked fear. Orders to prep for emergency surgery and then the voice got closer and as it did so, became softer.

"House? House?" the voice called to him from, it seemed, so very far away.

His eyelids fluttered open.

Cameron's lovely face swam into view.

House felt himself smile and saw as Cameron echoed his smile, slight and melancholy. Tears stood in her eyes as she looked at him.

"Knew you couldn't stay away," he croaked.

"No. I never could stay away from you for very long," she answered. The tears rolled down her rounded cheeks.

"Lengths I go to to get your attention."

"You really outdid yourself this time."

"Sorry," he said and he meant it. He was so tired. Somewhere in the distance, something was beeping, obviously requiring someone's attention.

"Stay with me House."

'_Stay with me.'_ The same words he'd spoken to Amber that night so long ago. They hadn't worked any better that time either.

"Sorry," he said again as the guilt for so many things, a lifetime of transgressions rose up and swallowed him. "Tired." His mind was reeling and his eyes began to lose focus.

"C'mon House. Not now. When did you ever refuse to fight?"

"Not this time," he said. "Everyone's better off . . ."

"Fight you stubborn bastard!"

"Let me go," he whispered as his eyelids slowly closed again.

"No!" she screamed. "Don't go! Don't you dare go!"

He felt sorry for her as he began to drift. She sounded upset. He regretted having to disappoint her once more but this was his decision, his choice and he was so tired of fighting, tired of the pain, so much pain in his body and in his soul.

He dimly heard Cameron shouting orders again and calling a code as alarms sounded. He felt himself give into one last sigh as he finally surrendered to the nothingness.


	61. Chapter 61

**61 – "****Even though I'd be sacrificed, you won't try for me, not now. Though I'd die to know you love me, I'm all alone. Isn't someone missing me?" – Missing Me – Evanescence **

Wilson's anger and disappointment at his best friend had grown exponentially since the previous day. But even though he half-expected the early morning phone call from Blythe House, asking for a ride to the airport, he was still additionally frustrated with House's continued absence.

He knew House well enough to recognize the signs. House was clearly absorbed in yet another, self-destructive downward spiral.

What was confounding Wilson however, was his friend's apparent embrace of the slide rather than fighting it. What else did his mother need to do to prove that she was going to fight her cancer? What better way could Cuddy show him that she truly cared for him than to bring her daughter to visit his sick mother?

These and so many other questions needed to be addressed as soon as possible. But House had childishly run away yesterday and now was continuing to hide out, who knows where.

It fell to Wilson once again, to find House and try to talk some sense into him. And yet, he was not sure how much longer he could bear the heavy yoke that a friendship with Gregory House entailed.

What had he gotten out of the relationship anyway?

Pangs of guilt sliced his insides as he thought of all the times that House had come through for him, had, in his own atypical way, showed Wilson how much he truly cared for him as a friend.

He remembered when he asked for House's support when he went under the knife to donate a piece of his liver to his friend Tucker. House hated Tucker and adamantly refused Wilson's request to stand by him as he was anesthetized for the surgery. Wilson felt House's refusal to be entirely selfish until House quietly admitted, "If you die, then I'm alone."

Up to that point, he had thought that House had merely been jealous of his friendship with Tucker, had recognized in him a similar neediness that Wilson was attracted to and by nature, must indulge. He assumed House had been covetous of Tucker's time with him and the activities they shared, particularly the ones that required two sturdy legs to participate.

But House's words, spoken almost inaudibly, clearly threw new light on the matter. House, one of the most, dynamic, forceful people he'd ever met, was intolerably afraid of being alone.

Yet, even after his refusal, House conquered his fear and stood by Wilson throughout his surgery and subsequent recovery. House had himself, proved his own hypothesis that "Everybody lies." And in the same fell swoop, had demonstrated that actions speak louder than words.

Wilson saw, through House's final acquiescence a glimpse, however brief, into House's very soul. The only emotion strong enough to conquer the kind of fear House was experiencing was love. And it was his love for Wilson that made him care enough to stand by him, even though he disagreed with his decision.

His fear was not borne merely of losing Wilson's friendship or of the many ways Wilson's codependency enabled some of his most loathsome habits. No, that ended up being nothing compared to the feelings House carried for the man himself, the person he knew and loved as a brother.

Wilson's eyes began to water as he shouldered the remorse of his recent irritation with House. He felt his anger with his friend melt away as a light dusting of snow on a warm spring day.

He picked Blythe up at House's apartment and they made good time in the light weekend traffic to the airport. The ride itself was subdued and Blythe gave Wilson a teary goodbye that was made all the more emotional by the obvious absence of her son.

"Tell him . . . tell him I love him. And tell him I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? He started the argument with you. He . . ."

"No James. He's right. I'm the one who started this, a long time ago. I just hope that we still have enough time . . ." Her voice broke with emotion.

"Blythe, you _will_ have enough time if you follow the treatment plan your doctor back home and I have outlined for you. Don't let your son's obstinate behavior . . ."

Wilson changed tack. "You have a lot to live for Blythe, _you_ do. I'm not just talking about living for your son. I'm talking about living for yourself. Don't let whatever happened between you and House keep you from finding your own happiness right now."

Blythe House stood looking at James Wilson for what seemed, a very long time, thick tears rolling down her face.

"You're very good you know. Not just a good doctor, an excellent doctor, but a good human being. My son is very lucky to count you as a friend. And I'm very lucky too. You're good to him and you're good to me. Thank you James."

She laid a small hand on his rounded shoulder and gently kissed his cheek.

"Call me after you talk to your oncologist. I want to know how you're doing," Wilson said, sniffing slightly as he looked at the floor.

"I will. Thank you for everything James."

"Thank _you_ Blythe. Remember where there's still life, there's still hope."

"Now I _know_ you use that line with all your patients James," Blythe chuckled.

Wilson laughed, one short nervous exhale and said, "Maybe so, but that doesn't make it any less true. I've _had_ to believe that Blythe. Not only as an oncologist but as your son's best friend.

House has given me reasons, time and time again to keep believing that. Because he has changed, he has made progress, he's grown. Just when I think I've begun to figure him out, he surprises me again and I realize that even though I'm his best friend, I'll probably just barely ever scratch the surface in trying to understand him."

"How do you think I feel? I gave birth to him and have known him all his life and he STILL surprises me."

They laughed together again. And then the loudspeaker announced Blythe's flight.

"Thank you again James. And thank Lisa Cuddy for me too," she said and gave him a little wink. "I've got a good feeling about her and my son. Call it a woman's, no a mother's intuition."

Wilson gave her a small smile. "There's hope right there."

She nodded and leaned up to kiss him once more. "God bless you James Wilson," she whispered. With that, she turned and left.

The parting with Blythe convinced Wilson more than ever that he needed to find House. He needed to help him sort through the glut of feelings he must even now be experiencing; love for his mother and her rejection of him by her refusal, so far, of treatment; love for Cuddy and her rejection of him because of Lucas' uncontrolled behavior; love for Wilson and his rejection of him by ignoring his advice and risking his life for an uncaring friend.

But the idea of finding House was a much easier supposition to reach than the actual reality. House could be anywhere along the entire Eastern Seaboard, hiding out in any number of dive bars slowly pickling his liver and by association, himself to death.

He had no idea where House spent the night. He hadn't returned to the condo and Wilson knew he hadn't gone over to his old apartment to try and mend fences with his mother.

His only plan, before he started by checking every bar and jail cell in Princeton, was to swing by Cuddy's place on the way home to see if House had somehow magically matured enough in the few hours he was missing to go over and apologize to the woman he loved.

Wilson wanted to touch base with Cuddy anyway to make sure she was alright. Blythe House had still been emotional when he left her to run some tests and Cuddy's phone call to ask for time with his patient had come not long after. And Blythe's conspiratorial mention of Cuddy only stoked the fires of his curiosity even more.

He knew Cuddy herself was still raw from the things that had happened to her and Wilson realized that he needed to see her face-to-face to convince himself that she was alright. A phone call simply would not do in this case.

And as much as he needed a friend right now, he knew that she needed one too. Her presence at the hospital yesterday, along with her selfless act of bringing Rachel in to visit Blythe, had only secured his admiration for her, for her strength.

Wilson believed that Cuddy would need every ounce of strength and stamina she possessed if she had truly fallen in love with House. And based on her reactions the other day, before the exposure of House's manipulations, had convinced Wilson that Cuddy was indeed in love with his best friend.

As he drove up to her house, he noticed gratefully that her car was parked in the driveway. Wilson's rising anxiousness at seeing her expressed itself by his taking the steps two at a time. He valiantly tried to slow his breathing as he pressed the doorbell.

Cuddy unbolted the door and removed the chain after seeing Wilson through the peephole. Her heart leapt at first at the unbidden thought of House ringing her bell when its sound first roused her from her thoughts. But she immediately realized that that hope was overly optimistic.

Even so, she put a smile on her face as she opened the door to her other good friend.

"Hi," he said. "I just wanted to see . . . are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Come in."

Wilson stepped across the threshold, still feeling antsy and nervous. House's recent presence was not in evidence. Cuddy would have been acting differently. Maybe she would have even tried to dissuade him from entering.

Rachel was busily playing with some toys on the living room rug, further proof that House was not here. The child's babbling was enough to wake the dead. He certainly wasn't asleep in the bedroom.

"Did you have a reason for dropping by today Wilson? Can I help you with something?"

As soon as Cuddy asked those questions, she fell silent. She knew the only reason why Wilson would drop by on a Saturday morning without calling first was because . . .

"Where's House?" she asked quietly.

"I wish I knew," Wilson replied. "I was kinda hoping he was here. He never showed up to drive his mother to the airport this morning."

"Dammit."

Cuddy quickly turned to see if Rachel had overheard her swear. Thankfully, the child was still too engrossed in her own toys to be paying attention to the furtive conversation of the two adults in the nearby vicinity.

"And I haven't seen or heard from him since yesterday afternoon when he took off on his bike."

"You don't think . . ." Cuddy turned very pale and she raised her hand to her lower lip which had begun to quiver.

"He's probably just on a bender," Wilson said, more in an effort to comfort her than because he had total faith in the idea.

Just then, the muffled sound of his cell phone's ring emanated from his inside coat pocket.

"This is probably him now," Wilson said as he looked at the caller ID. "Yes, it's the Princeton police. He's obviously gotten himself thrown in jail and he wants me to come bail him out."

Both Cuddy and Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as Wilson opened his phone and began speaking into the mouthpiece.

"House? If you think I'm coming down there to bail your ass outta jail . . . Oh, hello? Yes? Yes, that's my address."

Wilson's expression changed and Cuddy, sensing trouble, looked up at him, impatiently waiting for additional information.

"Yes, he currently lives there too."

More silence as Wilson continued to listen to the person on the other end of the line. Cuddy began nervously chewing on her bottom lip. She did not stop even after she tasted blood.

When Wilson spoke again, his voice was only a hoarse whisper. "Yes, I understand. I'll . . . I'll . . . be right there . . . as soon as I can."

He closed the phone. He stared at it in his outstretched hand as if it were a foreign object or an explosive device that he had somehow just discovered lying there.

"What?" Cuddy said. "Wilson, what is it? What's happened to House?"

"That was Princeton P.D." Wilson said in a monotone.

"You already said that," Cuddy's voice had pitched higher. "What did they say? Is he in the hospital? Princeton General?"

"They want . . . they want . . ." Wilson closed his eyes. He couldn't repeat it. Saying it aloud would only make it true.

"For God's sake Wilson! Tell me, please!" Cuddy was practically screaming. She grabbed hold of Wilson's arms and shook him.

Wilson opened his eyes. Tears began streaming down his cheeks.

"I have to go down to the county morgue. They want me to identify the body."


	62. Chapter 62

**62 – "So you think you can tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain? Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rain? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?" – "Wish You Were Here" – Pink Floyd**

No sooner had Wilson uttered those words than reality was suspended and time itself slowed down, drawing out like the sharp edge of a knife. His last syllable hung in the air like smoke on a winter's day as Cuddy lurched forward with the shift of the earth careening off its axis. She collapsed onto her knees, Wilson's arms wrapping round her like a protective blanket as he kneeled beside her.

They huddled together like two frightened children on the living room carpet, too shocked to speak, too devastated to even cry.

Cuddy couldn't breathe, couldn't think yet couldn't stop herself from thinking. A roaring sound was echoing through her eardrums and her vision became blurred and dim as a chill ran through her, clutching her very soul with icy fingers colder than the grave.

She suddenly was cognizant of the heavy burden that Stacey had borne so long ago, to make a decision that would forever separate her from the man she loved only because she could not conceive of a world without him in it. How truly brave Stacey had been. How Cuddy even now envied her courage.

She found herself silently thanking Stacey for choosing House's life over House's love. Stacey had given Cuddy a gift, a few more precious years with House. And though their relationship had always been a capricious one, Cuddy's heart surged with the knowledge that they had found each other again after being apart for so many years.

But now they were lost to one another once more and this time, the separation was immutable and eternal. How could she go on without him?

Even with the great affliction of her thoughts and the rebellion of her body against the veracity of the situation, she somehow knew she would have to be the one to speak first.

"I'm coming with you."

They both knew that the idea of her waiting at home for Wilson's phone call was entirely out of the question. Thus began the longest journey the two friends would ever make together.

They agreed to take her car because Rachel's child seat was already in the back. Cuddy couldn't call her babysitter. Her words of explanation for why the woman was needed on her day off locked in her throat. She found she had no wish to speak at all for it seemed that the sound of her own voice would shatter her entire world.

That of course was impossible. For that event had already occurred.

The drive to the morgue passed in complete and heavy silence. But Wilson was grateful for Cuddy's presence nonetheless.

Even though he insisted on driving, he somehow knew that he would never have been able to go through this alone. Just the fact that she was sitting next to him, her tension and grief marking her lovely features, made him barely able to shoulder this final burden in his volatile friendship with Gregory House.

Even Rachel seemed to sense the austere mood of the two adults in the car with her and had herself remained gravely quiet for the entire drive. By the time they reached their destination, Cuddy turned to see that her daughter had fallen asleep.

Wilson helped remove Rachel's car seat which doubled as a carrier. He knew that he was simply prolonging the inevitable but he was desperate for anything to keep his mind and his hands occupied. He searched for any excuse not to walk through the nearby metal doors and make the unreal finally real at last.

After holding the door for her, Wilson hesitantly followed Cuddy and Rachel inside to the relative warmth of the main hallway. The fluorescent lighting gave the three of them a deathly greenish hue as they made their way down the hall to the front desk.

Cuddy barely listened as Wilson explained the phone call and reason for their presence. An official in a white lab coat was summoned and introduced himself before ushering them down several tiled and antiseptic corridors.

They eventually came to a room with a window looking into the rows of metal drawers inside. There were several plastic chairs in the hall near the door.

Having come all this way, Cuddy was suddenly unable to walk the last few steps into the room. Her legs would no longer support her weight and her vision became hazy as she quickly put Rachel's carrier on one of the nearby chairs to avoid dropping it.

"Are you alright?" the official with them asked.

"Obviously not," Wilson growled immediately feeling a flush of guilt. The man was only trying to do his job and yet Wilson was taking his anger and frustration out on him.

"I'm sorry," he said but the official knowledgably shook his head, waving him off while saying quietly, "No need to apologize."

Cuddy whimpered, forcing the two men to look in her direction. She gazed listlessly toward Wilson with an unseeing stare.

"No," she said. "I'm not alright. And I'll never be alright again." Her voice had become husky and she was barely able to choke out the last words.

"Here, please sit down," the man said.

"No!" she repeated, her voice raising an octave. "I've got to do this. I have to do this. I have to see . . . him."

"Lisa please, you don't have to be brave for me," Wilson said, though he knew as the words passed his lips, he did not mean them.

He wasn't sure if he could do this alone. He didn't want Cuddy to suffer any more than she already had but he just didn't think he could go into that cold room and see his friend pale and breathless . . . no.

Wilson suddenly comprehended the level of his own frailty. He could not do it. He just didn't have the strength to walk those last few steps alone.

Meanwhile Cuddy's own imagination spun madly out of control. She couldn't fathom this, had no idea of her own reaction to seeing House, his beautiful blue eyes forever closed, his soft lips forever cold, his melodic voice forever stilled, his body robbed of breath and movement. She could feel herself slipping away, her energy rushing out of her like rain flowing through cracks in the pavement.

She turned her head slowly to look at Wilson. His usually bright brown eyes were full of tears. Upon seeing him, she no longer withheld hers and allowed them to flow freely down her cheeks. She clasped his hands with her own, sharing what little strength she had left while fortifying herself with the last dying embers of his.

"Together?" she said quietly.

Wilson was too overcome with emotion to speak. He simply nodded his head and taking her arm in his, walked into the room with Cuddy at his side.

The man in the lab coat stepped forward in front of them and put his hand on the handle of a drawer in the second row.

Wilson sobbed loudly when he read, 'House, Gregory' written on the taped label of the drawer.

As Cuddy mechanically patted his arm, the official turned to them.

"Ready?"

The two friends merely nodded. How could they possibly be ready? If only House could sit up, he would mock the man mercilessly for asking such an idiotic question.

The drawer slid open smoothly, its rollers making a metallic clicking sound. The body emerged covered in a white sheet which would be removed once a final identification was made.

"Let me know when you want me to . . ."

"Go ahead," Wilson choked.

The man turned to Cuddy. Her whole being seemed to tremble. She began shaking her head wildly, both in denial of what was about to happen and in an attempt to dislodge all the memories that came flooding in upon her; the first time she ever saw House, the tall lanky med student with astonishing blue eyes; the first time he'd ever held her in his arms, kissed her, made love to her.

To never know that sensation again, to never feel him moving inside her, his voice rising in ecstasy; and afterward, as her head rested upon his chest, the transcendent sound of his heartbeat, steady in its comforting rhythm like wave upon wave of the constant ocean caressing the sand.

So many miles they had traveled together, so much wasted time, so many endless hours now finally come to an end, so many things left to say to him and now she would never have the chance.

And yet she knew she would be, must be strong for House. And for his best friend who would be, she intuitively knew, just as lost in a world without House in it.

Cuddy had never been religious but she prayed now, to whomever or whatever might be listening. She prayed for the wherewithal to simply go on living in a world devoid of his presence, with a heart that had been irreparably shattered. The loss of House stripped her of both her heart and soul.

How could she go on living without her heart? Yet how could she die without her soul?

"Maam?" the man's voice intruded on her silent torment. He was looking at her, asking her again.

Cuddy stopped moving her head. She raised her face to him, her tear-filled eyes shone with an aching fear. She nodded once.

The official turned back toward the body. Placing his thumb and forefinger in about the middle of the deceased's face, he pinched the sheet and raised it.

Cuddy screamed. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she fainted dead away.

Wilson was barely able to catch her before she fell all the way to the tiled floor. He bent down, supporting her head against his shoulder as he began stroking her cheek.

"I'm sorry," the man said. "I thought she was better prepared."

"It's not your fault," Wilson replied.

"So this is a positive ID? The deceased is Gregory . . ."

"No, no," Wilson quickly interjected. "That's not House." He looked up, tears of gratitude swimming in his dark brown eyes. "That's Lucas Douglas."

A/N: I hope the more literary among you will notice my meager little homages to both "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "Wuthering Heights."

I am sorry I made you wait so long for an update but real life has been kicking my tuches.

I did however, give you plenty of hints that this wasn't House, the attacker (obviously Lucas) rifled through House's pockets and the previous chapter began with the song "Missing Me" which can only be referenced from House's point of view. He couldn't "say" those lyrics if he was already dead.

Thank you all so much who are reading and especially reviewing. I got a lot of responses to this chapter and that reminds me that I'm not just writing and working so hard on this story (which I really am) in a vacuum.

Hope you'll "stay tuned" as House is still out there somewhere fighting for his life. Thanks again and keep those cards and letters (reviews) coming!


	63. Chapter 63

**63 – "Pretty soon you'll be able to remember her, lying in the garden singing . . . Long may the mountain ring to the sound of her laughter and she goes on and on. In her soft wind I will whisper. In her warm sun I will glisten 'till we see her once again in a world without end." – "She Goes On" – (Neil Finn) Crowded House**

House slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in the tall grass underneath the shade of a large flowering tree. The limbs looked like something from the willow family and a light breeze made the branches sway ever so slightly, scattering their pink and white blossoms to dance on the currents of air.

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here or even, where here was. But that didn't seem important right now in the grand scheme of things. The sky overhead was speckled with high clouds and a cool breeze soothed his tired brow.

"Greg!"

It took a moment for his mind to click into place. Who was calling him?

"Greg! _Did you fall asleep? You big lazy good-for-nothing!"_

Although he understood what was being said, he suddenly realized that whoever was speaking to him, was not speaking English. Where the hell was he?

He heard the sound of light footsteps moving toward him. Just as he propped his torso up onto his elbows, something solid knocked into him in a whirl of skirts and knee socks and shining blue-black hair.

"Keiko?"

"_Who else rode with you on the back of that THING you call a motorcycle?"_ she laughed as she flopped on top of him, effectively pinning him to the ground.

House gazed up to see her smiling face looking down at him. Her small, slim hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from her eyes. He'd almost forgotten how beautiful her eyes were, large and almond-shaped with irises the color of finely grated cinnamon.

His heart missed a beat, several in fact, as he took in her features; her flat, rounded cheekbones, black arched eyebrows, small refined nose and generous mouth.

But of all that, her hair was her crowning glory, long and straight and shining like onyx in the afternoon sun.

Her expression changed as she narrowed her eyes. _"Why are you looking at me like that? You look as if . . . you don't know me."_

"_God. I'd forgotten how beautiful you are!"_ House hadn't even realized that he answered her, quite naturally, in Japanese.

She changed her expression again. She looked suspicious. _"What's wrong with you? Are you still asleep? Or is this some kind of trick?"_

"_No, no! I'm awake! Or . . . ,"_ he paused and rubbed his smooth face. _"At least I think I am."_

"_Good! No sleeping and no tricks!"_

Suddenly, she threw one leg over his hips, straddling him. She leaned forward, pressing his wrists into the grass.

"_I'm in charge so I make the rules! I'm giving the orders here!"_

"_Yes sir!"_

She closed one eye and turned her head to the side to peer at him with the other. _"What did you say?"_

"_I mean, yes ma'am!"_ he said. _"I'd salute you but you'd have to let me go first."_

He half-hoped she wouldn't. He was rather enjoying the feeling of her warm body sprawling across his ribcage, her knees on either side of his lean waist. He felt his own body begin to stir in response to her provocative position.

"_No, you're not going anywhere just yet. Not until . . ."_ she threw her hands into the air, curving them into claws,_ "I tickle you!"_

As she said this last, she dug her hands into his ribs. With a shout, House leaned forward and grabbed for her hands.

Keiko squealed and rolled over to his side, but not before she had locked her legs around him and dragged him with her.

They were at the top of a small, sloping hill. The two of them rolled over and over each other all the way to the bottom, laughing, shrieking, tickling and fighting the whole way. As they finally came to rest, House found himself on top of her, both of them desperately trying to catch their breath.

"_Now who's giving the orders?" _he said.

"_What are you going to do with me . . . master?"_ she asked quietly. As he gazed at her, her eyes became large and shining.

House let go of her arms and brushed the hair back from his eyes.

His father had recently been away long enough so that his usual short crop of hair had finally grown out to a decent length. Keiko told him that it was a big improvement. She seemed fascinated with its wavy texture in comparison to her silken, straight locks. And his dark hair had taken on a copper hue in the sun, accentuating his light eyes.

"Greg?"

"_What?"_

She was smiling again; it seemed like a knowing smile and much more mature than her nearly fifteen years.

"_My God. Your eyes."_

"_What about my eyes?"_ he said.

"_It's like looking into the blue of heaven. Like the blue of the sky in spring. Like the sky today."_

He was fourteen. He was confused and breathless and excited and fourteen. And he was in love. For the very first time, he felt it, knew it. This would be the one, the one to which he would compare all the others for the rest of his life even if he was only comparing them with his imagination and dreams of what might have been.

But at that moment, he didn't know any of that. He only knew that he was fourteen and that he loved her.

"_I want . . . ,"_ he said.

"_Yes master?"_

"_I want to . . . kiss you."_

He moved forward, awkwardly taking her lips with his. He felt her lips move in response to his kiss and the awkwardness melted away. He kept his eyes closed as he brought his right hand up to caress her chin. She opened her lips and as she did, he licked the inside of her mouth as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She responded by moving her tongue into his mouth.

He stretched out on top of her as she lay back into the grass. Her arms reached round him, her hands stroking his back as she held him to herself. With his free hand he traced her right breast through her clothes giving it a gentle squeeze as she sighed into his mouth.

He was feeling so many things at once. The warm sun and her small hands lightly caressing his back, the feel of her mouth connected with his, the breeze softly blowing her hair against his cheek, the primal call of his body in instinctive, aching need to join with hers.

He could feel the warmth pulse through him as he pressed his growing hardness against her. With an inexpert grasp, she reached down, cautiously pressing her hand against the constriction of his jeans. He broke the kiss as he moaned, automatically pushing his hips forward, seeking to increase the contact.

They stopped. They did not move from their mutual embrace, his hand still on her breast, hers still on his jeans, but they did not take any steps forward either. House slowly opened his eyes to see Keiko already looking at him with a smile on her face.

He reflected her smile and lightly kissed her again. She began humming and then with a lilting voice, she quietly sang to him. The song she sang spoke of the return of a baby sitter from beyond the mountains and the presents she brought back, a toy drum and a flute, for her baby boy.

House drowsily closed his eyes. The taste of her lips and the thrill of his first open-mouthed kiss combined with her gentle singing so that he very soon contentedly drifted off to sleep in the tenderness of her embrace.

A/N: If you're not familiar with this beautiful love song written by Neil Finn of "Crowded House" fame referenced at the beginning of this chapter, I do highly recommend it.


	64. Chapter 64

**64 – "****No, I can't forget this evening, or your face as you were leaving, but I guess that's just the way the story goes. You always smile but in your eyes your sorrow shows. Yes, it shows. No, I can't forget tomorrow, when I think of all my sorrow; when I had you there but then I let you go." – "Without You" – Harry Nilsson**

Cuddy was sitting hunched over, shaking slightly though not from the cold. A blanket had been found and draped over her narrow shoulders. Her small hands clutched a styrofoam cup of coffee and she was desperately trying to avoid spilling it with her ceaseless trembling.

"How are you feeling now?" Wilson asked as he stepped in front of her, placing a knee on the cool, tile floor.

"Just . . . wanna get home."

"Okay," he answered. "Let's get you and Rachel home."

Cuddy slowly stood up as Wilson wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. With his other hand he picked up Rachel's carrier and together they walked to the car. Once he had secured the still sleeping child in her car seat, he turned and opened the passenger side door for Cuddy.

She was moving like a zombie, stiff and unseeing. Wilson was afraid for her, she was nearly catatonic.

He really wanted to take her to the hospital but knew that he could not bring himself to upset her further by driving anywhere but her requested destination. Besides, a hot bath and a cup of tea or maybe even a glass of wine might do her better than whatever sedatives he or any other doctor could prescribe. He helped her buckle her seatbelt and after making sure that she was safely inside, closed the door.

The grey clouds above them wept huge icy tears, pelting the car with sleet and freezing rain on the quiet ride home. Wilson eased off the gas pedal as he slowed the car's speed in deference to the slick road.

The only sounds in the car were the squeak and drone of the wipers as they swept the icy rivulets from the windshield. Eventually, Cuddy's strained voice broke the silence as Wilson knew it would.

"This is my fault, all my fault," she said flatly.

"How so?"

"I was the one who was kidding myself and at the same time . . . I led him on." Cuddy began to cry again, finally shaking off the lethargy the strain of the last few hours had imposed upon her.

"Lisa, you didn't know . . ."

"But I should have, don't you see?"

"Not even House knew that Lucas . . ."

"That's not the point!" She fought the suffocating feeling in her chest, desperately trying to avoid becoming hysterical. "I was _with_ him. We were together for nearly a year."

"And I've known House for over 15 years," Wilson said stubbornly, "Sometimes I feel like I know him less as the years go by. And I'm his best friend!"

"But we . . .," Cuddy's throat closed. "We _slept_ together. We were intimate," she choked. The feeling of being snowed under by her emotions lay siege to her once more. She began to shake her head, fervently trying to rid herself of the thoughts, memories and emotions of the previous year that were all, like a great avalanche, overwhelming and suffocating her.

"And that should make you an expert? I'm sorry Cuddy, but if having sex with someone automatically makes you omniscient, then I'd still be married to my first wife. Hell, if that were true I'd still be married to ALL my wives. I'd have to live out in Utah somewhere and start my own commune."

Wilson's attempt at brevity to lighten her mood was not lost on Cuddy. She reached across the seat to tenderly squeeze his shoulder. Wilson took his right hand from the steering wheel and extended it out, palm up. Cuddy's hand slid from his shoulder to clasp his outstretched hand, interlacing her fingers with his.

"Neither you nor House know everything and neither of you have a crystal ball that helps you foresee the future."

"I know I can't predict the future but I should at least know my own mind . . . ," she paused for what seemed to her like an eternity. "And heart," she whispered.

Wilson squeezed her hand gently. "House's breakdown . . ." He remembered when they'd last spoken of that dark time. He was championing his best friend's cause, like he always did. He and Cuddy were trying to make some sense of it and, like House, were still trying to heal in its wake.

"It threw all of us into a tailspin," he continued. "You can't blame yourself for trying to move on with your life, trying to find some balance, some semblance of happiness for you and Rachel. You told me that yourself."

"But I . . ."

"And you can't keep blaming yourself for House's collapse either."

Cuddy turned her tear-filled eyes to Wilson. How had he known that she was still blaming herself for being oblivious to House's steep descent into hell?

Perhaps Wilson recognized in her the same feelings of guilt he shared. She suddenly saw that Wilson was still tormenting himself over the fact that he'd missed all the signs too. He had been just as ignorant of House's downfall as she. And he was House's best friend.

"No more than you can blame yourself for what happened to Lucas," Wilson said quietly.

Cuddy's hand was cold and began to tremble at his words. Wilson struggled with telling her what he knew, what they'd told him at the morgue. Could she handle it? His soft brown eyes momentarily left the road to look at her face. He saw there all the pain and heartache she was going through.

But he also saw something else, something solid. There was steel behind the liquid gaze she bestowed upon him. There was strength in her yet. She could take it.

"Lucas was killed when the van he was driving went off the road into a pole. Because it was a single car accident, they'd already done a preliminary blood test on him."

Wilson inhaled and let his breath out in an extended sigh. "His blood alcohol level was off the charts, way over the legal limit."

He briefly glanced away from the road to look her full in the face again.

"Lucas chose to get drunk and get behind the wheel of a car. That is NOT your fault. He made his own choices, his own mistakes. You can't blame yourself Cuddy." Wilson's voice was imbued with emotion. "House wouldn't hear of it. And neither will I."

She squeezed his hand in response and they drove in silence again for quite some time.

"Did you . . . did you have to sign some paperwork?" she said finally.

"Yes. They'll notify his next of kin."

"Why did they think . . . why did they tell us it was House?"

"Apparently, he had House's ID and House's wallet."

Cuddy drew in a sharp breath. "How did he get House's wallet?"

"They don't know for sure. Right now the assumption is he stole it."

"But when? Oh my God!" Cuddy released his hand to take both of her own to cover her face. She began sobbing in earnest into her upturned palms.

"He hurt him! I just know it! He did something to House," she wailed, her hands muffling her shaking voice.

"We don't know that yet Cuddy," Wilson said as he took his right hand and placed it comfortingly on her shoulder. "But I filed a missing person's report with the police over the phone. Since Lucas had House's wallet, they're treating it as a theft. They're willing to look into it immediately."

"When did you . . .?"

"While I was waiting for you to recover." The car was silent for several minutes again. Wilson returned his right hand to the steering wheel as he squinted through the ice swept windshield.

Finally, he added, "And in the mean time, I can start calling around to . . ." He paused.

"Other hospitals," Cuddy finished for him.

"Yes."

Wilson pulled into Cuddy's driveway and shut the car off. At some point during the drive home, the sleet had turned to snow. Large, soft flakes drifted down, quickly blanketing the already sodden car, house, trees and yard with their crystalline beauty.

"We'll get through this, okay?" he said as he once again placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"We'll find him. Or he'll find us. Just . . . try not to worry."

Cuddy lowered her hands from her face and looked up into his eyes. "Okay," she said quietly. "I'll try not to worry as long as you try too."

Wilson nodded his head, a small smile softening his handsome but careworn features.

"Deal," he said.


	65. Chapter 65

**65 – "****You can hear the thunder of their cry. Ahead of their time, they wonder why. In the shadows of a golden age, a generation waits for dawn. Brave carry on, bold and strong. Only the young can say. They're free to fly away. Sharing the same desires, burnin' like wildfire." – "Only the Young" – Journey**

"Greg!"

"Humpf?"

"Hey G-man! Get up Greg House you lazy bastard!"

House's eyes remained closed but his lips curved into a broad grin. He knew that voice.

"Smile when you say that," House chuckled. "We bastards are a sensitive bunch."

He slowly sat up rubbing his eyes. House looked over to see his Michigan med school roommate, Dan O'Leary, putting one leg into a brand new pair of Levis, the tags still in evidence.

"And why should I get up?" House said. "What's more important for a med student than getting a little shut eye?"

"Have you forgotten?" Dan spread his freckled arms wide to emphasize his astonishment.

House had to stop himself from laughing out loud at the sight that presented itself right in front of him. Dan was standing there, his arms outstretched. Only one leg was covered by his jeans while the other stood pale and naked with his pants wadded up on the floor around his foot.

"How is it even possible to have a brain the size of . . . what did we decide your brain was as big as?" Dan queried.

"Montana."

"Oh yeah, right. A brain the size of Montana and STILL forget that tonight's the night that Rick's having his kegger?"

House swung his feet to the floor in one smooth action. He had retained his athletic frame and agile movement from all those years of lacrosse, swimming and other sports even though now his studies had taken over much of his time and energy.

"I'm not so sure I'm up for one of Dick's 'fright night fear fests.'" House shook his head forlornly. "There's always a couple of freshmen who can't handle their booze who end up puking all over a table or something."

"And what's even worse," he continued, "Is watching that buffoon try to get into some girl's panties. He's an idiot. He thinks all he has to do to get laid is smoke those cheap cigars and pontificate endlessly about his family's stocks and holdings. It's kinda horrific and at the same time tragic."

House scratched his nose before he added, "At least his family named him appropriately. He's SUCH a Dick."

"C'mon G-man, I mean, Montana." Dan smiled at House who merely peered sleepily back at him. "You know the girls don't start getting wise to his act until about third year."

Dan hopped across the floor on one foot as he slid his other leg into his pants. "Until then, there's no better place than a kegger to get 'em drunk and have 'em waking up in the morning wondering where their clothes went."

House reached toward his desk, lazily extending his arm like a cat stretching in the noonday sun. Opening the uppermost drawer, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. Rapping the cigarettes firmly against the palm of his left hand, House then turned the pack over and slipped a long tapered finger under the foil fold on top and extracted one. Holding it in his mouth, he lit the end before tossing the pack and lighter back into his drawer.

He then casually leaned back on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head. The cigarette glowed bright orange as it dangled jauntily from the corner of his mouth while House exhaled the smoke through his nose.

"Pathetic, man. You are just pathetic," he said. "Watching you interact with the opposite sex is like reading a Dickens novel backwards."

"How so?"

"You start with the happy ending and finish with the orphanage beginning. You wind up alone because you scare them off by coming on way too strong."

"Maybe. But I get more action than you. When was the last time you even talked to a girl much less nailed one?"

"I've been busy," House said, the cigarette bobbing up and down on his lower lip as he spoke.

"Doin' what?"

"Duh. The study of medicine requires constant attention to detail." House glanced down at the floor. "I don't have time for girls."

"Are you the stupidest genius on the planet? What are you, like an 18-level charisma?"

"Not to mention an 18-level intelligence and an 18-level wisdom. But enough with the 'Dungeons and Dragons' crap. What's your point?"

"My point man, if you let me finish, is that you're smart, funny, play any musical instrument that's thrown in your general direction and if _I _was as tall and good-looking as you I'd be up to my armpits in chicks! I'd be getting laid so much that my jewels would fall off."

"Thank you for the compliments dahling," House chuckled as he exhaled more smoke through his nose. "But I just will not go gay for you. Your complexion is too pasty and you have freckles all over your ass. Wouldn't mind living off your family's assets though. Yeah, I could get used to being a kept man."

"Smart guy."

"So you said."

The two friends looked at each other, grinning broadly. They were young, brash, healthy, horny and free. It felt good. It felt right.

"By the way, you won't get _any_ tonight unless you cut those tags off. No self-respecting girl would give it up to a guy that still had the sales tags plastered to his jeans."

"Who says I want a self-respecting girl anyway?" Dan reached for the scissors on his desk and began cutting off the tags. "Maybe a girl with a little less self-respect will be a little more desperate. And desperate girls can be so appreciative." Dan wiggled his carrot-hued eyebrows. "C'mon Greg, live a little."

"Throwing up into a toilet until 4AM because you forgot your limit is not MY idea of living."

"Okay. Suit yourself. But I heard that girl from your Endo class will be there."

House's whole body tensed as he snapped his head around to look his roommate full in the face.

"Who?"

Dan's eyebrows lifted almost into his hairline. "Ho ho! Don't tell me the great Gregory House has actually decided to set aside his all important time schedule and medical studies because he set his sights on some poor wayward lass. 'Help me Greggikins. Only your big, throbbing cock can save me!'"

House's eyebrows lowered and met in a straight line over his glittering blue eyes. He stood up, his already 6'2" frame adding extra emphasis to his words as he towered over his roomie's 5'9" stature.

"Who?" House repeated quietly, blowing smoke into Dan's face.

"All right, all right. Geez you're touchy. I heard from one of her friends in the cafeteria today that she was coming tonight, that's all."

"Don't make me ask you again."

"You know who. That cute little first year with the wavy black hair and the big blue-green eyes. The one built like a burlap sack full of bobcats. Lisa . . . something."

"Cuddy." House finished for him. He was trying hard to swallow the increasing flutter in his chest.

"Yeah, her. She and some friends are supposed to come party tonight." Dan smiled again. His green eyes danced with merriment as he looked at his roommate.

"I heard she totally likes to party. Why? You got it bad for her?" he said.

"No."

"Oh c'mon Montana. Who'm I gonna tell? Besides, you'd be crazy NOT to like her. She's hot!"

"And smart."

"Smart?"

"Yeah, she got into an argument with my Endo prof." House smiled at the recollection of Lisa Cuddy's flushed face, her eyes gleaming with excitement and anger. "She totally beat him back. Poked so many holes in his lame theory, it looked like a slab of Swiss cheese by the time she was through. Poor S-O-B never knew what hit him. He HAD to back down."

"Oh man, you ARE in trouble. That bod in combo with a brain? Isn't that like your perfect woman?"

House walked over to his closet and dug out a clean pair of jeans and his Rolling Stones 'Tatoo You' t-shirt. "We'll see," he said.


	66. Chapter 66

**66 – "****Some day, when I'm awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you and the way you look tonight. Oh but you're lovely, with your smile so warm and your cheeks so soft, there is nothing for me but to love you and the way you look tonight." – "The Way You Look Tonight" – Billie Holiday**

Winter came early, as it always did in Michigan and the campus was covered in several inches of wet snow. Much of it littered the ground in small mounds, having been scooped up and thrown around in an earlier, campus-wide snowball fight. The frigid air was beginning to freeze the remaining ground cover, turning the uneven hillocks and holes into an ice sculpture of a cratered moonscape.

Dan and House quickly made their way across the quad, anxious to get out of the bitter winds into a warm room and imbibe in some cold beer.

By the time they reached Rick's townhouse, the place was swarming with people, some of whom were dancing to the loud music blaring from a very expensive stereo system. The two friends made a beeline for the keg that was set up in the middle of the kitchen.

Dan had just poured two cups of beer, handing one to House, when Rick walked up to them, a smoldering stogie clamped tight in his teeth.

"Well, well, well and how are you Danny me boy? I see you were able to convince 'The Legend' to make a special guest appearance."

"Bite me," House said.

Rick turned to House. "What are you getting so pissy about? You should be more considerate of your magnanimous host." He mimed putting his thumbs through some invisible suspenders. "I see you taking part in the hospitality of my ample keggage."

House narrowed his eyes as he returned Rick's gaze. "Yeah, thanks for reminding me. Nice choice of lager . . . Dick."

Rick's face reddened as Dan stifled a laugh. "It's Rick! Not Dick! Rick!"

House smiled. "Potato, po-tah-to. A Dick by any other name would still be a Dick."

"Hey Montana. Look who just arrived," Dan whispered to House while tugging his shirt sleeve.

House looked toward the open door. Three girls had just entered the room and were looking around. The first was tall, bleach blonde with dark roots and a ruddy-faced complexion. The girl standing next to her was plump with a round, smiling face and straight chestnut hair. The third girl stood slightly to the left and in front of the second. She was slowly unbuttoning her coat to reveal a low cut red blouse and tight short skirt. Her black, high-heeled boots were leaving small puddles on the tile floor.

The plump girl took all three of their coats and disappeared, presumably to throw them in one of the bedrooms.

"Well if it isn't Lisa Cuddy as I live and breathe," Rick said.

House turned back to face him. "You know her?"

"Do I KNOW her? Do I KNOW her?" Rick's face broke into a malevolent grin. "Greg my boy, that little cat is the best piece of ass on this campus and I have the claw marks to prove it."

House could feel Dan's worried gaze on him. He simply smiled.

"You wanna sell me the Brooklyn Bridge too Dick?"

Rick's grin faded faster than snow on a hot stove. "You don't believe me?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because, my dear Dick, SHE is not your type."

"How do you know? How do you even know what my type is?"

House laughed. "Are you kidding? The only girls who can stand you for even a short period of time are . . . well let's just say that if brains were dynamite, they wouldn't have enough to blow their nose!"

"You wanna put your money where your mouth is _Legend_?"

"Go on," House said as his face broke into a smooth smile.

"I'll bet you 50 bucks that not only do I get the first dance with Lisa Cuddy tonight, I'll take her back to her dorm and do the horizontal mambo with her ALL night long."

House stood there shaking his head. "First of all, word on the street, which by the way comes from your ex-girlfriend, is that you'd be lucky to get it up for five minutes, much less all night. Second, 50 whole bucks huh? You really have a lot of faith in your own abilities."

Rick's face turned a deep scarlet and the veins in his neck bulged out above the collar of his shirt to grotesque effect. "Then what do you think . . . "

"Make it $250."

"Done."

"Can I get in on that action?" Dan finally spoke up.

"Another $250 on the side?" Rick said.

"Yep and another $100 bucks says Greg DOES dance with her, take her back to the dorm and hits that fine ass."

"Done," said Rick as he started to move in the direction of the girls.

"Shouldn't have made that second bet," House said after Rick walked out of earshot.

Dan turned to him as he sipped his beer. "I knew that would be the ONLY way to get a fire under your ass and get you to make a move on her." He slapped House on the back. "Don't worry, I know you won't let me down."

"Dan, you're an idiot! I've barely even spoken to her! You just made a bet that I'm gonna sleep with her tonight!"

"Montana, whining does NOT suit you. Just go for it. I don't care about the bet. Just GO for it."

"What about you? Who are you gonna 'go' for."

"Either one of her friends will do for me, although I'm kinda leaning toward the blonde."

"Bad idea. Go for the other one."

"Why?"

House gave Dan a withering look. "Trust me. You don't want to let anything near her that can't be scrubbed with steel wool and soaked in bleach for five days."

"How do you know . . .? Oh wait, Rick's making his move. This is gonna be good."

House turned in the direction of Dan's gaze and the both of them watched, transfixed, as Rick walked right up to Lisa.

"Pilot to bombardier, pilot to bombardier, approaching target," House said over his shoulder to Dan.

"Bombardier here sir. Ready to drop payload on your order."

Rick was standing very close to Lisa and had taken the cigar out of his mouth to speak to her. House saw her wince slightly at the trail of smoke that floated into her nostrils. She was currently giving the cigar's owner an extremely frosty stare."

"Weather report confirms ice, we have ice," House said.

"And worst of all, it's not in a drink," Dan replied as he raised his beer to his lips and downed a large swig of the amber liquid.

Judging from the movement of his hands and head, Rick had begun talking animatedly to Lisa. House clucked his tongue recognizing the signs of desperation in Rick as Lisa became more standoffish.

Rick began gesturing wildly, sloshing the beer out of his cup and spilling it on Lisa's blouse.

"Ooooh!" House and Dan groaned together.

"Radar confirms premature evacuation of fluids," House said.

Dan sputtered and began to hiccup. "Greg, man! You made beer come out my nose! It's burning, you jerk!"

"Not my fault you've gotta drinking problem."

The two young men watched as Rick turned away from Lisa and began to slowly make his way back through the crowded party.

"Yes, it looks like Dick has been shot down, no survivors," House said speaking into his beer cup as if it were a microphone. "Return to base. Missile launch cancelled, repeat, no launch, no launch. Dick's puny, narrow missile will remain flaccid and completely useless in its silo. Apparently, Dick cannot lay his finger on the launch button."

Dan doubled over as he guffawed. He quickly straightened up as Rick walked up to the pair of them.

House stuck his palm in the air and Dan promptly slapped it as Rick returned to their circle.

"Easy money," House said.

Rick had, by this time, huge red blotches on his cheeks.

"Okay _Legend_. Let's see YOU do any better with that uptight bitch!"

House held out his hand, palm up, until Rick finally got the hint.

"You don't think I have that much cash . . ." Rick started.

"I don't think. I know. You never have less than 500 in your wallet."

"How do you know. . .?

House raised his hand higher, gesturing with his waving, curved fingertips toward himself.

"Quit your bitching and your stalling. Just gimme," he said.

Rick pulled out his wallet, gingerly counting out $250 into House's palm.

Without a word, House pocketed the money and went over to the nearby keg, filling three cups with the frothy amber liquid. When he turned, he noticed Dan folding his winnings into his wallet and nodded to him.

"Come over in five minutes with an extra beer."

"You got it Montana."

Greg House carried three beers across the crowded room desperately trying to walk more bravely than he felt.


	67. Chapter 67

**67 – "Well my heart went 'boom' when I crossed that room and I held her hand in mine." – "I Saw Her Standing There" – The Beatles**

Halfway across the room, Lisa Cuddy looked up and met House's gaze. The plump chestnut-haired girl had returned to her side and she giggled while nudging Lisa, whispering in her ear. All the while Cuddy's eyes never wavered from House's face. The bottle blonde, meanwhile, turned away looking bored.

Cuddy boldly watched him continue to make his way to where she was standing. She obviously had a lot of chutzpah. And House liked chutzpah.

"Ladies?" House said as he reached them. "Nine out of ten doctors, and med students for that matter, recommend immediately drinking a glass of beer after trekking through the frosty Michigan snow. The tenth doctor is an uptight moron so nobody listens to him anyway."

He held the three cups out to them. The blonde grasped her cup first with a licentious smile and flutter of her eyelashes. She leaned farther forward than was necessary in an obvious attempt to provide House with an unobstructed view down her low-cut blouse. When he continued to be nonplussed by the exposure of her naked breasts, she grabbed her cup with a gusty sigh and a toss of her peroxide locks.

Cuddy and her remaining friend gingerly took the cups he held out to them. Cuddy's fingertips gently brushed his as she took her cup last. House thought he felt an electricity pass between them even at so brief and slight a touch.

"Thank you," she said, her large blue-green eyes looking up into his.

"No, I should be thanking you. You just put me $250 dollars in the black."

"What?"

"I made a bet with numb nuts over there. Oh look, he's trying to pretend he's not staring at you. Smile and wave."

Lisa didn't know why but she did as he asked.

"What did you mean you made a bet?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the blonde broke in with a dramatic exhale. "They both bet they could screw you. And now you're talking to this . . ."

House made a long, drawn out buzzing sound. "No, I'm sorry. That answer is incorrect. Too bad but I'm afraid you cannot advance to the bonus round."

Cuddy and the plump girl chuckled while the blonde narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to him.

"I know who YOU are, 'Legend,' she said in a mocking tone. "You think you're so smart but you're not getting into MY panties."

House closed the distance to the blonde so that there was no visible space between them. He towered over her, wearing a lascivious smile on his face. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the furious look on Lisa Cuddy's visage and her chestnut-haired friend placing a quieting hand on her arm.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not going anywhere near your panties or any other critters you might be keeping in them. I'm not a fan of spelunking."

The blonde shot daggers out of her eyes as her cheeks reddened and House continued.

"Are you really that unsure of yourself that you have to try and outshine your prettier friends by throwing yourself in people's faces like that? Do guys really fall for that line of crap? Seems kind of obvious to me. Kinda the way it's obvious that those clothes you're wearing leave nothing to the imagination. Kinda the way they make it obvious that you're built like a 13-year-old boy. Kinda the way your breath makes it obvious that you're constantly puking to keep yourself looking that way."

"Sorry," he said as he stepped back waving his hand in her face, "I like MY women to be shaped more like women. They should have breasts, yeah, breasts are good. But don't worry, I'm sure Andy or Chris would be more than happy to service you . . . again. They told everyone when they screwed you last time that you were no great shakes but I guess any port in a storm? Or is that any tunnel under the river?"

House stood on tip-toe and looked around the room in a falsely exaggerated effort to locate them. "Now those guys are around here somewhere."

The blonde's blotchy complexion had turned beet red and her eyes shone with embarrassed tears. She turned quickly on her heel and hurried away, heading somewhere in the direction of the stereo and the liquor.

"Was that necessary?" Cuddy spoke up with an appalled look on her face.

"Yes, I think so," House replied. "C'mon, you really didn't want me wasting time bantering back and forth with her when you and I could be getting to know each other better?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at her.

"You arrogant, son-of-a . . ."

"Dan! What kept you? This is Lisa Cuddy and her cute and available friend . . .?"

The plump girl favored him with a dazzling smile as she shifted her gaze from House to Dan. "Lori," she said as she offered Dan her hand.

Dan shook it perhaps a little too energetically but Lori seemed unfazed. "Lori, would you like to accompany me to the keg? You look like you could use a refill."

"That'd be great," she said as her face split into that remarkably wide, brilliant smile.

"Later Montana," Dan said as he slapped House a bit too forcefully on the back. "Sorry," he added as House glared at him.

Dan and Lori walked away leaving House and Cuddy alone together.

"Dance?" House said as the music changed and a new song began wafting through the speakers.

"Do you think that you can just insult one of my friends . . . ?" she began.

"C'mon. You're not REALLY friends with someone like that are you? Someone so shallow that they are constantly on the make to lay only the most popular sportos and brainiacs on campus? Never had to work hard for anything in her life because mumsy and daddy give her . . ."

"How do you know all that? You don't know her."

House had, without her definitive consent, somehow managed to maneuver her onto the makeshift dance floor. As he moved past the speakers, he placed his empty cup onto the nearest one. Now that both hands were free, he put one hand on her hip and the other behind her shoulder blades. Her body felt warm to his fingertips and he longed to let his hands roam beneath her clothes. But for the time being, he kept them where they were.

"She douses herself in overpriced French perfume and wears that expensive watch and ring her parents bought for her." He paused briefly, hearing her surprised intake of breath while allowing his unfailing logic to sink into her brain.

"And although I may not know her, other guys have, in the full, Biblical sense _known_ her. They talk."

He felt her tension begin to ease away as they moved together. She leaned into him, her head resting on his chest. He was a little worried that she would hear his increased heart rate and yet he had no wish to create more space between them.

They were quiet, dancing smoothly together as if they had rehearsed the steps.

Even though there wasn't much room, House was able to use the cramped space to his advantage. He had learned how to dance during his travels as a youth and he sagely knew that he could use his knowledge to impress her. She did well keeping up with him but was hampered somewhat by the fact that she was still holding her drink.

She smiled before she finished the rest of her beer, inverting the cup completely against her lips before reaching over and placing it on a nearby table. As soon as she was unencumbered, he dipped her. The color rose to her cheeks as he leisurely brought her back up, positioning her closer again while a slower song started playing.

She was so warm and smelled so good. Her scent reminded him of the spring lilacs his mother had once raised in their yard at home in the States before his father had made her get rid of the plants. Their sweet aroma attracted too many bees.

He was feeling a little unsure of himself and more than a little vulnerable as his body began to react to their close proximity. House knew he needed to do something quickly before his feelings and his physical reactions betrayed him entirely.

"You REALLY gave it to the Endo prof," he said, after dancing quietly with her for a few minutes.

She leaned back so she could see his face while speaking to him. A bit of the self-righteous anger she'd had during her argument crackled in her eyes.

"Was I wrong?" she asked him defiantly.

"No, no. I like how you made him eat shit."

She nodded and let go a contented sigh as she laid her head against his chest once more. Her arms reached up, wrapping round his neck and she clasped her hands just below his head. He felt the improved, closer positioning of her breasts and hips as she inclined toward him. The room started to get uncomfortably warm again.

When he looked down, she was smiling up at him once more. Her eyes were half-closed and her lips were parted alluringly.

He couldn't resist. He leaned forward and gently placed his lips against hers. He felt her raise up on her toes to meet his kiss as her tongue flicked across his mouth seeking entrance. He immediately granted it, closing his eyes and deepening the kiss.

Everything else, the music, the talking, the laughter, all the sounds and smells of the party faded into the shadows until there was nothing else but her. Her warm mouth and tongue's quick reactions to his own, the taste of her lip gloss and toothpaste mixing with the beer, the smell of her light cologne mingling with a thousand other things, her soap and shampoo, her increased breathing rate, her firm round breasts pressing into his chest, her fingers which had started to play with the nape of his neck all came together in an infinite, earth-shattering moment.

House wasn't sure who drew away first. His eyes were still closed as the sounds of wolf whistles and cat calls assailed his ears. He opened his eyes but ducked his head to avoid meeting anyone else's gaze.

The other partygoers soon lost interest and the two moved to a more private corner to continue their activities.

He lost all track of time, focusing instead on the way the light illuminated her face, the sound of her laugh, the distinctive method she used to brush a particularly tenacious strand of hair from her blue-grey eyes. Several more light kisses were interspersed with their conversation as the hour grew late.

After awhile, Cuddy leaned forward, furtively whispering in his ear, "Wanna walk me back to my dorm?"

House smiled. "Sure," he said. "I'll get our coats."

Dan caught House before he left.

"Montana, where you goin' with those coats?"

"Lisa asked me to walk her back to her dorm."

Lori, who was standing next to Dan giggled and whispered something in his ear.

"Right," Dan said to her. "Well, you two kids have a wonderful time." Dan made the sign of the cross over House as he said, "Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

"Shut up you jerk!"

"Hey, you'll be grateful I did that in the morning." Dan moved closer to whisper conspiratorially, "With a body like hers and knowing how long you've gone without, she might just kill you. Then where would you be?"

"Dead dumbass. But with a huge smile on my face."

House turned and moved easily through the crowd to where Lisa was waiting for him by the door.

Wordlessly, they donned their coats and bundled up against the chill they knew waited for them on the other side. No amount of preparation, however, was enough to thwart the arctic blast that assailed them upon exiting the townhouse.

House and Cuddy walked quickly together across the campus toward the freshmen dorms. Mist rose from their lips and ruddy noses as they talked and laughed together.

House found Lisa undeniably cute in her little white woolen cap and matching scarf and mittens. As soon as they reached her dorm, they rushed inside the double doors stamping their feet and howling their approval at the warmth of the lobby.

As they stepped onto the elevator, a great cloak of silence descended upon them both. They were anxious and embarrassed.

House kept stealing glances at her; her lovely profile, the contrast of the white snowflakes sprinkling her raven's wing hair, her lips which had become chapped both from the cold and from kissing him all night at the party.

The couple continued to hold their tongues in the stillness of the nearly deserted dorm. Lisa's hand was trembling slightly as she took her key and unlocked her door.

House hesitated in the doorway. He knew what he wanted but he also needed to make sure of what Lisa wanted as well.

As he opened his mouth to speak, Cuddy turned to face him. She brought her right hand up against his face and gingerly lowered it to hers, kissing him greedily as soon as his lips were within range. House neither opened his eyes nor arrested the kiss as he reached in back of himself with his right hand, closing and locking the door behind them.


	68. Chapter 68

**68 – "Come let me love you, let me give my life to you. Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms. Let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you. Come let me love you, come love me again." – "Annie's Song" – John Denver**

The lights from the campus walkway reflected off the white frozen courtyard, casting a dull orange glow through the dorm room windows upon House's naked body laying there in the semi-darkness. His long-limbs shivered slightly as he pressed himself closer to Lisa's blanketed form curled tightly against him.

She made a small noise and he quickly looked at her to confirm that he hadn't disturbed her. Cuddy soundly slept on, somehow managing to continue clinging so securely to her sheets and blankets that House was denied their warmth.

No matter. The memories of their last few hours together heated him with a fire that he had thought he'd forgotten long ago, if he'd ever known it at all.

House smiled as his mind relived their two lovemaking sessions. The first was quick, yet satisfying for both. They had met, eagerly uniting their bodies in the physical culmination of their cerebral exchange.

For their second round, House was intent on taking his time, exploring every aspect of her mind, heart and soul as he brought Cuddy's body to the pinnacle again and again and again. He had been straining to hold himself back in his admiration and wonder at her responses. His own, final passionate release, after totally exhausting his partner, was nothing short of cathartic.

It was then, after Cuddy had fallen into an almost comatose sleep, that House recognized something very different in this particular sexual experience, with this specific woman, than he'd experienced with any other. He knew that he was, perhaps for the first time, truly engaged in not only the act itself, but with the person with whom he was sharing a bed.

It was not just sex. He had made love to her.

Getting his not unperceptive brain around this concept had sent his mind spinning. Surely he had been in love with at least one of his sexual partners? But no matter how he racked his memory, House came to the same conclusion; sure, he'd been fond of most of the women he'd been with, cared for some of them, really liked a few of them even.

Yet he could not honestly say that his heart was totally lost to any one of them . . . until now.

House both thrilled to and hated this new sensation. While his imagination soared to the idea of spending time with her, debating various topics to discover the way her mind worked, finding out more about her, laughing and talking with her and definitely having a lot more sex with her, the whole nature of his being recoiled at the idea that another person might have control over him and his emotions.

With a single word or gesture, he knew that she, and she alone, could make him feel either defeated or ecstatic. Lisa Cuddy held within her grasp, the power to make him fail or fly.

There was only one other relationship he'd ever had in his life where people he'd loved had that kind of power over him and that connection had not gone well, for him at least. Gregory House still carried many of the fears, hesitations and emotional scars from his dysfunctional relationship with his parents and he somehow knew that he probably always would. The fingerprints and marks of abuse rarely faded from the psyche as quickly as they did from the physical body.

House's long, lanky frame curved around Lisa's smaller figure as his body naturally inclined upon his thoughts. She was the solace from his past, a respite for the present and a torch to light the way for his future. He wanted her again; never, in fact, did he want to be anywhere else but with and inside her.

He slowly began kissing her ear, her hair, her cheek as he gently massaged her breasts, fingering her pert nipples.

When his lips reached hers, he felt her smile against his mouth and then she boldly pushed her tongue against his, tangling the two together. This was the chutzpah he thought he'd first recognized in her at the party and of which he was so fond.

When they broke apart, he chuckled.

"I didn't know you were awake," he said.

"Hmmm," she purred. "Then why did you start kissing me?"

He gently licked her white shell of an ear before speaking softly into it.

"Figured it was the only way to get you to let go of your death grip on the blankets. I'm freezin' my ass off out here."

"Sorry!" she said as she began to extricate herself from the covers and wind them around House. "You really do feel cold. How long have you been laying there without a blanket?"

"Awhile."

"You should have woken me up sooner! What are you, a masochist?" She began rubbing at his arms and legs to help warm them.

"That feels nice," he said giving her a lopsided grin that she could plainly see as she leaned over him in the near darkness. "But I have some other extremities that I'd like you to rub."

Her laugh rang out in the empty, shadowed room.

"Really? Have those areas gotten cold too?"

"Why yes they have," he said emphatically. "And they require some very special warming on your part."

Her hand slid well below the blankets and when it reached its target, House breathed out a low, apprehensive hiss.

"Well if THIS part of you has gotten cold, you certainly couldn't tell. It's still enormous." She continued sliding her hand up and down his length as he grew harder with every stroke.

"Oh God," he sighed rolling his head back and closing his eyes. "Are you this good at everything?"

She laughed again, this time ending her laughter by touching her lips to his. As House opened his mouth to receive her tongue, he gripped her tightly, rolling her over onto her back as he lay on top of her. He reached over to her nearby desk for the box of condoms and snagged a packet, releasing her mouth as he tore open the foil pouch with his teeth.

"I was going to remind you that I have a very special warmer that will work wonders on that particular extremity but I see you remembered," she said as she smiled up at him, gently touching his cheek.

"How could I forget?

She helped him with the condom and then gripped him firmly, pushing his length into her body as the both of them moaned. Cuddy came almost immediately, her screams only quieted by the fervor of his kisses.

House was in danger of climaxing so he temporarily removed himself and slid down the length of her body. He wanted to taste her, smell her, feel her body writhe from a wholly different position.

Cuddy was still panting heavily when he began kissing the tops of her thighs. Her legs spread automatically as his lips touched her flesh. He moved in closer to sample her wares.

He used his lips and tongue to circle his primary target, moving ever closer, teasing her, tasting her. Her hips began to buck as she whimpered in frustration and mounting desire. Her hand fisted his hair, pushing his face into her most intimate area. He rewarded her by sucking at her and immediately sending her into such a sharp and overwhelming series of orgasms that she nearly threw him out of her bed with her undulations.

"No . . . more . . . no," she breathed after a long while, sounding too weak to stay awake.

"Just one more? Please?" he said, gliding up along her body, rubbing her breasts with his naked chest to finally, lock his mouth with hers again.

It was as if someone had set a match to dry kindling. He could feel her moving with renewed vigor once more, taking her left leg and wrapping it firmly around his hips. She confidently took hold of his erection, lifting her right leg forward and up until he felt her ankle behind his neck. He gasped in surprise at her flexibility and in anticipation of the exquisite sensations created by this new angle.

For one brief moment, they were suspended there, their eyes open looking into the depths of each other's souls. And then with a loud moan of satisfaction, House sheathed himself deep inside her, causing both of their bodies to writhe together as one.

Cuddy was rolling her head around on her pillow as if she was possessed and she began to gasp and pant with renewed pleasure. House heard and felt her building orgasm and knew that this time, there was no power in the world, above or below it that could sway him from joining with her in their mutual, total release.

He was frantically pumping into her, lifting himself up and away so that he could admire the movements of her body, the heaving of her breasts, her lips parted in an 'o' shape, gasping for air. Deeper and deeper it seemed he dove into her, feeling her walls grip him more and more tightly, feeling the rising heat of their joined bodies and the coolness of her sweat comingling with his own in the cooler air.

She came on, louder and stronger and more sensuous than ever.

"House! My God, House!" she screamed.

He had naught to do but follow her lead. As her body sucked him in deeper still, House felt the heat and power of his sex suddenly reach critical mass. His thrusts became stronger and faster as he moved inevitably toward the summit.

He groaned loudly as all the muscles in his lean body contracted. With an explosion that could have been nuclear, he released himself, wildly plunging into her as her body continued to pulsate and satisfied moans issued forth from her lips.

"Oh Cuddy!" he shouted his climax to the still, night air, his frantic thrusting eventually quieting to a slower, rocking movement.

He finally collapsed next to her, yet still reaching for her, holding her close as he withdrew himself from her fluidity and warmth.

When his breathing finally slowed, he realized she was shaking slightly. He clasped her to himself, kissing the top of her head as he fought sleep. Gently reaching for her chin, he tilted her head to try and see her face. She passively resisted his efforts.

"What?" he said. "What is it?"

At the sound of his voice, she suddenly stilled. She turned her face to look at him, her eyes huge and expressive in the dark. Tears stood in her eyes but she was smiling too.

House decided some levity was required.

"Why did you shout my last name?"

"What?"

"When you were coming, why did you shout 'House?' The 'Oh God' I can understand but why 'House?' A simple 'Greg you are the most fantastic lover I've ever had' would have sufficed."

The wonderful trilling sound of her laughter rang out once more in the room.

"I don't know exactly," she said. "Maybe 'Greg' just wasn't enough for the way you were making me feel. Maybe calling you by your first name just didn't show you the respect your actions so richly deserved."

It was House's turn to laugh this time.

"I'm so glad you said that. Because that's exactly why I yelled 'Cuddy.' You are way too much woman for just 'Lisa.'"

The two of them laughed together and House knew that if his heart stopped then and there, he would die happy.

House wrapped his long arms around her once more, wanting to possess her, to lock her into place where they would remain, possibly until the spring thaw.

He tilted his head back to gaze into her eyes and saw her face, still smiling, begin to mist over. He looked down and her entire body became foggy and obscured as well. The room grew darker and began to swirl as he tried to grip Cuddy more tightly.

But House felt her form slip away from him as if she were merely sand in an hourglass.

"No!" he shouted. "No, no, no, no, no!"

Everything began to fade into shadow except the sound of her laugh which continued to ring in his ears. But that too began to change, in both pitch and volume until it was no longer Cuddy's laugh.

House felt himself falling, plummeting through the inky blackness as a mind-numbing paralysis spread through him, filling his heart and choking the very life from him.

He knew that laugh. And as it became louder he realized that it was, at the same time, drawing closer. Whatever its portent, he knew that things did not bode well for him.

House's feet slammed into something solid and he collapsed onto his knees. He remained on all fours for quite some time, catching his breath. When he raised his face, his eyes beheld a strange place, a place that seemed at once familiar but where he also knew, he had never been before.

The person standing and laughing in front of him however, he recognized at once. He closed his eyes, wishing with all his might that when he opened them again he would be alone. But his gaze reconnected with the same person who had not moved, the star of his most virulent nightmares and the last face he knew he would see before the final vestiges of sanity were ripped from him.

Amber.


	69. Chapter 69

**69 – "Come on, wake up! Wake up love! We should make the night but see your little lights alive." – "Waking the Witch" – Kate Bush**

"I'm sorry sir, you CAN'T go in there!"

"Look, this man's a witness in an ongoing criminal investigation," the detective said in a forceful yet quiet voice. "I need to talk to him and I need to talk to him right now. So what you're going to do for me is go back into that ICU and tell his attending that he needs to be woken up right away so I can question him."

"But . . ." the young nurse began to argue further.

"Just do as you're told. You should be used to following orders."

The nurse swallowed the harsh lump in her throat while she spun on her heels, turning her back to the surly cop. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he had upset her.

She strode toward the ICU, stretching the bungee cord around her neck to swipe her ID badge on the access panel. The ICU entrance immediately slid open and she stepped through the gap, pausing to watch the doors close behind her. There now thankfully existed a solid, sound proof barrier between her and her antagonist.

Johanna certainly didn't need this aggravation. If it weren't for her personal loyalty to Dr. Cameron, she wouldn't have even bothered arguing with the disagreeable man.

But Dr. Cameron happened to be one of her favorites on the staff, even though Allison was a fairly recent addition to Princeton General. Cameron had been pleasant and professional right from the start, showing respect to all of the hospital's employees, regardless of their job or position.

Not only that, Johanna felt it her duty to try and shield her hospital's newest asset during this current crisis. For Allison Cameron had taken the admittance of her most recent patient wholly to heart.

It was obvious in her reactions to him that Cameron knew the man. He had coded yesterday when he was first brought in and Dr. Cameron had fought like a tigress to bring him back. She always worked hard for her patients but there was a singular edge to her concern for this particular one; almost as if the doctor was not sure that her life could go on without him.

Most of the staff had noticed the difference in attitude but Johanna especially had been privy to Cameron's unreserved behavior toward the patient. Her position as night nurse in the ICU had caused her to walk in on doctor and patient at various times and at odd hours.

It was as if Allison could not endure any physical separation from him. She always seemed to need to have some contact with him, whether holding his hand, stroking his hair or touching his face or body.

To Johanna's mind, there was no other explanation for the way Dr. Cameron acted and talked to her patient, even though he had yet to wake up; she was hopelessly in love with him. And although the patient was more than a few years older than his attending physician, Johanna felt sure that this mysterious new patient was most certainly the father of Cameron's unborn child.

The nurse stepped quietly into the low-lit room only to see the doctor bent over her patient once again, gently stroking his face and speaking to him in a tender voice.

"Won't you wake up? Please wake up. Wake up for me? C'mon, open those big beautiful blue eyes of yours and look at me. Please?"

She leaned over and kissed his scruffy cheek.

Johanna left the room as quietly as she had entered and then turned around and came in again, making as much noise as possible. This gave Cameron plenty of time to straighten up and pretend to check the patient's IV line.

"I'm sorry to disturb you with your patient Dr. Cameron."

"That's alright Johanna. Did you just start your shift?"

"Yes and . . ." Johanna was reluctant to mention the pushy detective. But Dr. Cameron would need to know sooner or later. Sooner was the preferable option.

"There's a detective just outside the ICU. He's insisting on talking to your patient."

"Well I'd love to talk to the patient myself. But right now, he's still in a coma."

"I tried to explain that to him but he just won't take no for an answer. He's demanding to talk to you and to him."

Cameron sighed heavily. "I'll go and talk to him."

"Would you like me to stay with the patient until you get back?"

Cameron gave her a weak smile. "Thanks. I'd appreciate that. I'll only be a few minutes unless I can't get this idiot to understand the meaning of the phrase, 'He's in a coma so he can't talk right now.'"

Johanna nodded her head and sat down in the only chair in the room. This was shaping up to be yet another long night.

Cameron punched the code and walked through the open doors of the ICU. No detective or any other officer was immediately within view. Where the hell was this guy? He was so hopped up to talk to House and now he'd disappeared?

She glanced first to her right and then down the left hallway. Flustered, she turned around, set on immediately returning to House's bedside when she heard the door to the nearby men's room open and close. The ominous squeak of rubber soled shoes confirmed the fact that the public servant who had already badgered Johanna was approaching.

She turned to face him and felt her jaw drop in surprise.

"Well Dr. Cameron," he said in a familiar, gravelly voice. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough Detective Tritter," she squared her stance and folded her arms across her chest. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He smiled. Her obvious defensive posture was just too tempting. Though he was in a hurry to talk to the stabbing victim, Tritter could always make enough time to stick the knife in and twist it a little with a former opponent; or in this case, the lackey of a former opponent.

"No longer working for the eminent Dr. House? What finally made you quit? Couldn't stand to watch him pop his pills and berate you and the entire human race anymore?"

Cameron felt her hackles rising. She had spent the better part of the last 24 hours defending House's life against the specter of death. She was more than willing to defend him again against this bullying prick.

"House is clean. He checked himself into rehab without any bullying from you, thank you very much." She eyed him suspiciously. "But that's old news. I would have thought you'd known all about that, seeing as how you were such a big fan of his and had nothing better to do with your life than to hound him and make everyone around him miserable."

Tritter chuckled darkly. Allison Cameron was more fun than he remembered. Of course his increase in pleasure at annoying her had improved in combination with her change in hair color and the way it set off her eyes as they flashed when she rebutted him.

"Still as loyal to House as any lapdog I see," he said while rubbing his chin.

"And I see you're still just as big a bully as you ever were. Do you enjoy upsetting my nursing staff? Or is that just one of the peculiar perks of your job?"

The detective stepped closer, taking full advantage of his considerable height to intimidate her. "I do whatever it takes to get my job done. I'd have thought you'd have understood that being an alumna of Dr. House's peculiar brand of Machiavellian medicine."

Cameron set her shoulders back and craned her neck to maintain eye contact with her adversary. "Much as I enjoy this trip down memory lane, I'm very busy. Maybe we can change the topic to something more in the present tense. What do you want right now?"

"What I want is to talk to your patient," he said smoothly.

"As I'm sure my extremely competent nursing staff already explained to you, my patient is still in a coma."

"Well wake him up."

"No can do. His coma, not ours." She waved her hand in his general direction. "Anything else?"

"The longer I wait to talk to your patient, the more time his attacker will have to get away. And I'm not prepared to let that happen."

Tritter's eyes glittered as he said this last. He was a hound on the hunt and he'd scented his quarry. He reminded Cameron most forcibly of House when he was closing in on a diagnosis and that comparison made her soften her attitude toward him ever so slightly.

"There's nothing we can do right now. He may be in a different position in the morning. We can reevaluate then."

Tritter leaned back, crossing his arms in front of him.

"Sounds good. I'll wait."

"There's really no need . . ."

"I'll find a chair. Oh and by the way, do you have a positive ID on your patient? He's still listed downstairs as a John Doe."

Cameron hesitated. So far, no one here at Princeton General had recognized House. Though he was world-renowned, House was known by reputation rather than by sight.

And Cameron had taken her responsibility for House and her protection of him quite seriously. She had jealously guarded House's identity, only allowing staff members whom she knew to be fond of and loyal to her to even enter his room.

Her extreme caution was clearly understandable. For one reason, House had been admitted to her ER as the victim of a stabbing. His attacker was, as yet unknown and who knew where the knife-wielding maniac was or if he would make another attempt on House's life?

House had already nearly succumbed to his injuries last night. His near miss with death reminded Cameron of another violent attack, another near fatality several years before.

Cameron shuddered at the recollection of when House had been shot while he was in his office at PPTH. He had nearly died that time too.

Was this attacker the same man, returned to finish what he had started? If he was, he could conceivably follow someone from PPTH, like Wilson or Cuddy, if and when they came looking for House. Or was House's attacker someone else entirely?

But protecting House from another assault was not Cameron's sole impetus in her reticence for revealing his identity. Since his arrival the day before, she had been feeling both privileged and excited by the prospect of having House, in many ways, all to herself. Not since their motorcycle ride and stay at the seaside inn together, when her child had been conceived, had she been completely and utterly alone with him.

And she still yearned for just a little more time, a little more privacy, a little more closeness with the man she loved, the father of her unborn child.

Her mind was made up in the space of a heartbeat. For the time being, she would continue her private ownership of Gregory House.

"No ID was found on him."

Tritter nodded his head. There was an odd look on his face as if he knew something. But his expression changed again in an instant.

"Is there a doctors' lounge nearby? They usually have comfortable chairs."

"The doctors' lounge is for the doctors," Cameron said.

"Well, I'm sure they'd rather have a detective sleeping in their lounge than to come out and find their cars have been impounded."

Cameron sighed with impatience. Apparently detective Tritter had not relinquished browbeating anyone whom he felt stood in his way, including the innocent.

"Down the hall, make a left, first right, fourth door on the right. There's a sign so you can't miss it."

"Thank you doctor. Oh, and by the way . . . congratulations," he said, waving his hand toward her well-rounded belly.

"Thank you," she said briskly, turning to go once more.

"Does Dr. House know about the joyous event?"

Cameron wheeled round almost losing her balance and stumbling, ever so slightly. Her reaction was subtle but Tritter saw it and guessed at what it meant.

His mocking laughter made the color rise to her face. She turned away from him and saw Johanna running towards her, the warning bells of several different machines following in her wake as the doors to the ICU slid open.

"Dr. Cameron! Your patient!"

Cameron forgot all about Tritter, forgot everything else as she went on auto-pilot.

"I need a crash cart!" she yelled as she ran through the still open doors, not noticing nor caring whether Detective Tritter followed at her heels before the doors to the ICU closed once more.


	70. Chapter 70

**70 – "****I'm growing tired and time stands still before me, frozen here on the ladder of my life. Too late to save myself from falling . . . Don't let the sun go down on me. Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see. I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free. But losing everything is like the sun going down on me." – "Don't Let the Sun Go Down" – Elton John**

This time House determinedly kept his eyes shut tight.

"No, no, no, no, no," he continued repeating under his breath like a mantra.

"Oh yes, yes, yes!" he heard Amber's voice taunting him only a few feet away.

"Leave me alone. Why can't you just go away and leave me alone?"

"House," the voice got closer, "Open your eyes."

"No," House whispered. He wasn't sure if he could take it, didn't think he had it in him to return to Mayfield, couldn't go through the hell of a mental collapse again.

"House!" the voice was coming from just inches away now. "Open your eyes!"

He could do nothing save obey her command. House opened his eyes and tilted his head up as he continued kneeling on all fours. Amber was standing just above him, an enigmatic smile curving the corners of her mouth.

She looked different from the last time he'd seen her, or rather when he'd hallucinated seeing her during his downward spiral as his logical mind began to betray him.

She looked . . . better. Her skin was flawless and glowed as if lit from within. Her long blonde hair was shining golden in the sun and perfectly framed her face like a painting in an art museum.

She wore a long white gown that sparkled silver when the light struck it but her shoes gleamed crimson and looked to House for all the world like Dorothy's ruby red slippers.

"What's that getup you've got on? Some sort of 'Lord of the Rings' meets 'Wizard of Oz' kind of thing?"

Amber smiled more broadly. "I've gotta admit Greg, you don't mind if I call you Greg do you? I've always admired your ability to be sarcastic in the face of adversity."

"Part of my irresistible charm. Where the hell am I? What do you want?"

"Me? I don't want anything. And you are not 'the hell' anywhere. At least, not yet." She continued smiling her mysterious smile. "Where do you think you are?"

House looked around. Like Amber, the place was familiar, yet strange. And then he remembered.

When he was a small boy, he had gone with his mother to visit some relatives in Pennsylvania. They stayed in a cottage by a lake for the entire summer before leaving to rejoin his father in the fall. It was one of the happiest times he'd ever experienced during his childhood.

Everything was the same as that memorable summer only it seemed as if the colors of the sunlight, trees, grass, lake and sky were brighter and more vibrant. A cool breeze stroked the side of his cheek like a lover's caress and he involuntarily flared his nostrils, inhaling the wealth of scents that were carried to him on the wings of the wind; newly mown grass, wildflowers and fresh-picked strawberries.

"I know this place," he said more to himself than to her. He formed his words slowly, speaking as if he were in a dream.

"Stand up," Amber said, shaking him out of his reverie.

"What?"

"Much as I like you on all fours at my feet," she said with a fiendish grin, "You need to stand up now."

For lack of anything better to do, House again obeyed her order. He rose up to his full height, standing squarely on both feet.

Squarely on both feet? He reflexively reached for his mangled right thigh and felt the muscle smooth and whole against his fingertips.

"My leg . . ."

"Yes?" Amber said while arching an eyebrow.

House's eyes grew large and round. "No pain. I don't feel . . . I'm not in pain." He ran his hands along his body as if he had misplaced his wallet. He found the muscles of his chest, arms and legs sturdy and taut beneath his touch and also found that he was fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his feet fitting snugly into his Nikes.

"How do you feel Greg?" she asked.

"I haven't felt this good since . . ." Although it seemed ages ago, House remembered. The way his body felt and moved, the way air entered his lungs; this was how he felt when he was young, when he played lacrosse.

House tilted his head back, taking a huge breath, inflating his lungs to their utmost capacity. He exhaled ferociously to the sky and closed his eyes, feeling the bright sun burn hot upon his face. He suddenly laughed right out loud and then, rolling his head back down to give Amber an impish grin, took off running.

He ran up the dirt road that meandered through the aged pine trees. Patches of sunlight colored the path in shades of yellow and orange while the trees cast down dramatic colors of their own, shadowing the lane with blues and violets.

He ran to revel in the way his muscles immediately responded to his every whim, to feel the dirt and gravel beneath his pounding sneakers, how it felt to be young again and without pain, how it felt simply to run and how it felt to be utterly free.

He ran to the end of the road and through the adjacent field. He passed a dilapidated barn, disturbing the swallows nesting there. They swooped and dove overhead, voicing their displeasure with their incessant cries while House ran on toward the open pasture. He ran and ran until he could not run any longer.

He collapsed spread eagle and face down totally winded, in the middle of a field surrounded by daisies and clover, black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne's lace. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the pure white clouds in the perfectly blue sky.

The tears started in his eyes and leaked out of their corners, rolling down alongside his face and tickling his ears. It was so . . . perfect.

That's why he knew it couldn't last.

"Greg?"

"Just a few more minutes."

He felt Amber's body nestle against him as she lay down beside him.

Time passed. Cottony clouds brushed across the cerulean blue canvas of the sky as House listened to the sounds of the wind and his own breathing and a lark singing high across the meadow.

"Am I dead?" he said at last.

"What do you think?"

"Well, I don't believe in an afterlife."

"Some things are true whether you believe in them or not," Amber said. She propped herself up on her elbow facing him. She plucked a daisy from the grass and began sweeping it along his forehead, his nose, his lips.

"Why am I here? And where is here exactly?"

Amber continued touching his face with the soft petals of the flower. "You're not dead, at least, not yet. You're in between life and death. And unlike the other times when you were at this point, you have a choice."

House turned his head to gaze at her. "What other times? I don't remember . . ."

"The times you were here, on the edge between life and death. When your heart stopped after your infarction, your suicide attempt . . ."

"I never . . ."

She waved the daisy in his face to silence him. "When you OD'd on oxycodone on Christmas Eve." Amber gave him an intense look until House dropped his gaze.

"You really don't want to waste my time, and more importantly yours, by arguing semantics do you? When you took those pills and washed them down with the bourbon, you wanted to die. Just because you may have changed your mind afterward is only a spot of contention."

"So I'm being punished?"

"No. You're missing the point. All those other times you were always meant to go back. But this time, whether you want to go back or move on, the choice is yours."

"Move on? You mean die?"

Amber smiled again. "Yes. And before you dive into a debate with me in your haste to deny anything metaphysical, I just need to let you know that there IS a time limit."

"A what?"

"If you take too long in your decision, things will be decided for you. Kind of like a default position."

House rolled his head back to look at the sky once more. "Why is it always you?" He said sadly. "Why can't I ever imagine someone else, like Angelina Jolie? Why are you the one to always show up just as I'm losing my marbles?"

Amber chuckled. "When you were hallucinating, you made a choice to see me."

"No I didn't. I . . ."

Amber waved the daisy in House's face again. "Whether people realize it or not, accept it or not, they themselves choose the paths they follow. You CHOSE to see me. You're choosing to see me now." She sighed. "But I also CHOSE for you to see me."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"House, we are inextricably linked you and I. We faced death when were together in the bus crash. You reached out for me, tried to save me. Risked your life again and again to try and save mine. That bond will never be broken."

"Oh great, you're going to haunt me for eternity."

Amber laughed, a high-pitched, girlish laugh. But then she stopped and asked him soberly, "Why did you do all that? Go through deep brain stimulation, take those drugs, why?"

"You were Wilson's girlfriend. He was in love with you . . ."

"So it was only your love for Wilson that made you risk death to try so hard to save me?"

House was quiet again but after awhile, the silence was broken by Amber's repeated laughter.

"You did it," Amber continued, "Because your love for me was just as strong as your love for Wilson."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not. You didn't love me romantically, but as a mentor, as a protector. Your feelings for those you love are so powerful, that anything or anyone even remotely connected to the ones you care about are included in your need to rescue and defend."

House looked at her from the corners of his eyes and chuckled. "Like I wouldn't have gone up one side of you and down the other, twisted you like a pretzel and done you every which way but Sunday if I had half a chance."

"No, you wouldn't have. Not once you realized that I was truly in love with Wilson." There was a melancholy edge to her voice. "And not when you knew he was in love with me. Your friendship for Wilson is too strong. Your love is too overwhelming."

"Yeah, that's what I'm known for. I'm just a sweetheart of a guy."

"Of course not. But only because you purposely bury that part of yourself; you keep it hidden from everyone beneath your mask of bravado, sarcasm and misanthropy. You clothe yourself in those emotions so that you can hide how you truly feel, you deny that part of your heart so often that even you yourself start to believe that you are inherently incapable of love and being loved."

Amber suddenly threw the daisy onto his chest. "You keep lying to yourself and everyone else so that no one can get close to you. You're so afraid of being hurt that you make a preemptive strike before anyone can get close enough. You drive people away because you think you're saving yourself from the pain of their rejection when they finally, inevitably leave you."

She paused to pick another daisy and then, gently laid that flower on his chest next to the first one. She combed her fingers through her long hair as she continued.

"But what you don't realize is that the end result is the same, you're still alone. And whether you're alone because someone leaves you or because that is the path you yourself chose, in the final analysis it doesn't really make a difference, does it? Because you're still the one who must endure the heartache of your loneliness."

House could no longer look at the sky. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against the fire burning behind them, the tears of anguish and longing building up and threatening to spill over.

"And that's why," Amber said, "This time you chose to see two of the most important times love entered your life."

"I chose?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

Amber leaned closer to him and whispered in his ear, her breath warm against his face.

"Maybe you just needed to remind yourself of the times in your life when you loved and felt loved in return."

"You're saying I chose to remember that?"

"Yes. This place is simply a mirror of your life. Here, like in life, the choices, all the choices are yours." She leaned away from him to get a better look at him. Amber smiled.

"And I must admit that you really surprised me with the memories you chose. Your first real kiss with your puppy love? And the first time you really knew that you had made love to a woman, that it was more than just sex? You are a true romantic Gregory House."

He rolled his head to the side to look at her. She was so close to him that their lips were almost touching.

"I still don't understand . . . why?"

"Perhaps you needed to remind yourself of what gifts life has given you and what it still has to offer you. You've turned away from what was precious to you, protected yourself and your heart, denied love and been lonely and miserable for far too long. Maybe you just needed to remember the beginnings of things."

"There's no beginning without an ending," he said turning his head away from her. "When my father found out about . . . he got a transfer and I lost Keiko. The day after I was with Cuddy, I got expelled." His voice grew louder. "Stacey left me because I drove her away. Lydia went back to her family. Cameron decided she was better off without me and my own peculiar brand of poison. And Cuddy, she's already realized that I'm a poor choice for a woman in her position who has a child."

"Don't you think you're focusing on the wrong thing . . . again? The ending? You only see the end and totally ignore the beginning and middle? Do you completely skip over spring and summer and even fall and only focus on winter? On death?"

"The end is what causes pain!"

"So your life holds nothing for you but pain?"

House was silent. Then he said, "With precious few exceptions . . . yes."

"And those exceptions?"

He thought for a moment. To when it was good with Stacey, Lydia, Cameron and finally, Cuddy.

"Wonderful," he said barely audible. "But those times are so few and far between. And I'm so tired, of the pain here," he touched his right thigh, "And here," he touched his forehead, "But mostly . . . here," he placed his hand palm down upon his chest covering the two daisies and laying directly over his heart.

He felt Amber shift her weight next to him as she rose to her feet. He looked up to see her standing over him, the sun behind her head making a golden halo as it reflected off her long sweeping blonde hair. She reached down and held her hand out to him.

House's mind suddenly reached back into his memory, to the bus accident and the way she reached for him, her fingers separated and extending toward his own desperate grasp.

"Then you've made your decision," she said. "You won't go back. You won't go back to the pain and fear of that life. You'll stay here where there is no pain, there is no fear."

She looked intensely at him. "If that is what you've decided, then take hold of my hand and find peace and forsake your earthly pain."

House sat up while he continued to gaze up at her. He felt his hot tears start in the corners of his eyes. "No more . . . pain?"

"No more," she said. "Ever. You need to make your decision. Your time grows short."

"_Cardiac arrest! Charging! Clear!"_

"I want to," he said.

"Then take my hand."

House looked at Amber's outstretched hand as the first tear ran down his cheek. Then he raised his clear blue eyes to hers and slowly closed his eyelids.

"No," House said.


	71. Chapter 71

**71 – "****I act the role in classic style of a martyr carved with a twisted smile. To bleed the lyric for this song, to write the rites, to right my wrongs. An epitaph to a broken dream to exorcise this silent scream. A scream that's borne from sorrow . . . Did I gaze through perfection and examine the shadows on the other side of mourning?" – "Script for a Jester's Tear" – Marillion **

"What?" Amber sounded genuinely surprised. "What did you say?"

"I think I just said no."

Amber's hand dropped to her side. "But why?"

"_Still defib! Charging! Clear!"_

House bent his legs toward his chest, draping his long arms over them as he continued to sit in the grass. He seemed to be concentrating his attention on his hands which lay clasped on the tops of his knees.

"Because," he said. "Cameron's the one fighting to save my pathetic life. And she would never be able to forgive herself if I died under her watch."

He inhaled and exhaled slowly and deeply. "Wilson would drive himself crazy trying to find some way to shoulder all the responsibility for my death. And then there's Cuddy . . ."

"What about Cuddy?"

"Cuddy will find out that Lucas ran me off the road and stabbed me. And she'll blame herself for everything, for Lucas, for the argument, for not saying goodbye to me for . . ." House felt his throat close. He couldn't continue.

"So what you're saying then," Amber began, "Is that you're willing to give up everything that _you_ want and return to a life of pain for someone else? For several someones actually."

"They can't feel bad about this. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it. They don't deserve a lifetime of torturing themselves over things they have no control over."

Amber knelt down in front of House, smiling broadly. "And maybe you don't have to keep torturing yourself over things you had no control over either."

"What?" Confusion filled House's thoughts and swirled in the depths of his eyes like the clouds overhead drifting across the same field of blue.

"Your childhood, your father's abuse, your mother's neglect. Your leg. My death," House visibly shuddered, "And Kutner's. The patients you've cared for and lost. So many things that weren't your choice, weren't your fault. You're allowed to forgive yourself for things that weren't your fault House. And even for the things that were."

House remained silent, desperately trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

"_C'mon House! Dammit! Don't give up! Clear!"_

"It's an unfathomable love you have for others," Amber said. House's head shot up, but she held up her hand to stop him from interrupting.

"Maybe you could share a little of that love with yourself? Because otherwise you're just wasting it, throwing it away. You can't deny yourself love and deny others the joy of loving you. Not when your love is that profound. Not when you feel so deeply and that much."

"You don't know anything about me or what I feel," he said sullenly.

"I know that the greatest expression of love is self-sacrifice," Amber replied calmly. "And you're here now willing to sacrifice yourself, willing to give up what you want, feeling pain free and being at peace for the people you love."

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I'm just a masochist?"

Amber stood up laughing. "Always the great deflector. It won't kill you House to let others in every once in awhile, particularly the people you love. But it just might kill you NOT to. This was just a reminder of that. And what you have to gain . . . and lose."

"Everything," he said quietly.

"Yes House, everything. You risk it all when you deny your heart; the chance for real happiness and to make something of your life here and now, the people you love, your sanity and your rational mind and finally, your life."

"_Dr. Cameron, we're still not getting . . ."_

"_I'm aware of what we're not getting. Charging! Clear!"_

Amber held her hand out to him once again. "Take my hand. Hurry. You don't have much time."

"I thought you said that if I take your hand . . ."

"Trust House. You have to learn to trust. Trust me now House! Take hold of my hand!"

"_Dr. Cameron, I think we should call time of death."_

"_No! No! Not yet! He's not ready! I'm not ready! Charging! Clear!"_

House reached up and grasped Amber's outstretched hand with his own. As soon as their fingers met, pain like he'd never felt before coursed through his entire being. Searing pain flowed through his heart, lungs and abdomen, running along his spine to finally stream through his face, fingertips and toes.

He wanted to scream but couldn't. Like some sort of nightmare, his mouth opened to give voice to his agony but nothing came out.

"We've got a rhythm Dr. Cameron! There's a pulse!"

House felt himself breathing hard. The pain in his chest was excruciating. He rolled his head up, squeezing his eyes against the stabbing pain while emitting a deep groan.

"House! It's Cameron. Can you hear me?"

"Hurts," he moaned. "Hurts bad."

"I know."

"Dr. Cameron, his O2 sats are dropping."

"I know!" Cameron's voice was sharp. "House, we're going to need to intubate you to help you breathe. And we'll give you something for the pain."

"Not just yet Dr. Cameron," a different, yet just as familiar voice sounded in House's ears.

"No, no," House said in between gasps for air. "Pain meds. No opiates. Can't detox. Can't go through that again."

Cameron glanced over at Tritter. His face betrayed a look of naked surprise. He obviously had not expected Cameron's words to be true, that House had kicked his addiction to Vicodin.

"Don't worry about the pain meds House. I'll take care of you, I promise," Cameron said softly into his ear as she squeezed his shoulder. "Where's my propofol?"

"Dr. House? Can you hear me? I need to ask you a few questions," the other, familiar voice was now adamant.

"Not now! Your questions can wait," Cameron's agitated voice shot back.

"No they can't! Dr. House? Can you hear me?"

House didn't want to but couldn't help opening his eyes. Through the haze of his pain and confusion, he saw the familiar but abhorrent face of Detective Tritter, bending over him only a few inches away.

"Oh God!" House croaked. "I was wrong. There IS an afterlife. And I'm in hell."

Tritter couldn't help but crack a smile. If House wasn't the damndest son-of-a-bitch! The guy was fighting for his life but was still able to be a smart ass. The detective, though still acknowledging an unsteady truce with House, could not help but admire him as well.

"Can you identify your attacker? Who stabbed you?" Tritter said.

House's breathing became more and more labored. He shut his eyes again, gasping for air.

"I'm sorry Detective Tritter, we can't wait any longer . . ." Cameron said as she stepped close to House's bedside again.

"No!" House moaned. He had to tell Tritter. Even though his relationship would probably always be adversarial, House recognized a kindred spirit as far as his vocation was concerned. Like himself with a diagnosis, Tritter wouldn't stop until he'd got his man.

"Lucas," he whispered, as he clenched his jaw, "Douglas."

"Lucas Douglas stabbed you?" Cameron said.

"You know him?" Tritter asked as he shifted his gaze to her.

"He's the boyfriend of Lisa Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine at PPTH. House and Lucas were friends."

"There's a much higher percentage of being attacked by someone you know," Tritter said. "Thank you for your statement Dr. House."

He turned to go but felt a strong grip on his arm. Looking down, he saw that House had grabbed hold of him and was looking up at him, still breathing heavily, panic in his eyes.

"He'll try and hurt Cuddy . . . Rachel." House's eyes were now tearing with the effort each breath was costing him. "You can't let him. Must stop him."

Cameron witnessed as Tritter took his hand and placed it reassuringly over House's. "Don't worry Dr. House. We'll get him."

"Promise me," there was a desperate edge to House's voice that had nothing whatsoever to do with his labored breathing.

Johanna moved forward and Cameron took the syringe she offered and injected it into House's IV line. She nodded to Tritter as House's eyes began to glaze over, his grip slackening.

"I promise," Tritter said.

Cameron watched as House's eyes finally closed. She took her fingers and parted his treasured lips, opening his mouth in preparation for inserting the breathing tube.

She struggled to keep the flood of memories and emotions at bay while she attended to him, taking on the persona of objectivity so that she could perform her duties as a doctor.

When she was finished she looked up to see the detective still standing on the other side of the bed.

"A minute of your time doctor?" he said, a veiled expression on his face.

"Page me immediately if anything changes, anything at all," Cameron said over her shoulder to Johanna as she walked with Tritter outside the doors of the ICU.


	72. Chapter 72

**72 –**** "See what you came to see. Been what you wanna be and I don't like what I see . . . So there's problems in your life, that's f***ed up and I'm not blind. I'm just see-through, faded, super jaded, out of my mind." – "Heaven Beside You" – Alice in Chains **

Tritter turned on his heel as soon as he heard the ICU doors close behind them.

"You wanna explain why you didn't tell me your patient was Dr. House?"

"Patient / doctor privilege."

"Cut the crap Dr. Cameron. I could arrest you right now for interfering with an official police investigation."

"Yes, I suppose you could. Look Detective, I don't expect you to understand. House had been attacked and stabbed. He came into my ER, my hospital. No one knew who his attacker was or where he was. It was a judgment call and I made it. I made it to protect my patient."

"You made it to protect your lover," Tritter spat.

Cameron looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. "That's not true."

"Are you trying to tell me you don't love him?"

"No, I'm not saying that. But . . ."

"And he's the father of the baby you're carrying, isn't he?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"So that's why you left Princeton Plainsboro? He knocked you up and then fired you? Or did you run away like a frightened rabbit?"

Cameron was tired, defeated. It had taken every ounce of strength that she possessed to once again snatch House from the jaws of death. She just didn't have anything left to lie or defend herself and her actions to the man standing in front of her now. A man who was just as arrogant, just as tenacious, just as self-righteous as House.

"Yes! But House didn't know, he never knew. I left without telling him. Before I even started to show." Her tears fell freely then. She began to sob in earnest as she did the day that House had rejected her. She was weeping as if she would never stop.

The last 24 hours came crashing down on her. She had had neither sleep nor anything to eat and her battle, both physical and emotional against death on House's behalf had worn her remaining strength down to the bone.

Before she realized what was happening, she felt Tritter's arms reach around her as her feet left the floor. He had picked her up and was carrying her down the hall.

"Please, put me down," she cried.

"Nope. Not when you can't stand on your own and you're in the middle of some sort of crying jag," he said.

He carried her all the way to the doctors' lounge and laid her on the couch, chasing her coworkers out of the room by flashing both his badge and a very forbidding expression.

"When was the last time you had something to eat? Or had some sleep?" Tritter said.

"I – I – don't know. Please, I have to get back . . ." Cameron tried to sit up but she felt a firm pressure against her shoulder. She gave in to it as she lay back down on the couch.

"You can't do this," Tritter's voice sounded strained. "If you won't think of yourself, at least think of your baby. Don't you care what happens to your baby?"

Cameron had started to close her eyes but there was something in the sound of his voice that made her open them again and look him full in the face. He was kneeling beside the couch, his eyes focused on her as he gently laid his large hand over the bulge in her stomach.

"Yes," she whispered gently. "I care what happens to my baby. But why do you?"

As she watched him, his eyes suddenly filled with tears. Cameron was so tired, all of her defenses forgotten as she acted purely on instinct. She raised her hand to his face.

"It's okay. I won't tell anyone. I promise."

Tritter looked down to the floor, no longer able to meet Cameron's steady, sympathetic gaze. There was so much about her . . . and the color of her eyes. It was the same shade as . . .

"She was only 17. Her mother died when she was three-years-old, misdiagnosed cancer." There was a bitter edge to his voice.

Tritter paused, scratching his head with his free hand. Now that he'd started, it felt as if the words would simply pour out of him without stopping.

"She was beautiful but headstrong like her mother. I spent too much time on the job. And I was a cop. She needed to rebel against something and she chose, she chose me."

"She started hanging around with the wrong people, experimenting with drugs," he continued. "She wouldn't listen to anything I said. She started stealing to support her habit. I was able to cover for her, keep her out of jail. She stole from me, other relatives, friends, anyone just to get her next fix, her next high. When everyone deserted her and gave up on her, she would come home to me. She'd promise that this time she'd get clean, stay off the stuff and I, I foolishly believed her every single time."

"Love makes fools of all of us," Cameron said softly.

Tritter had almost forgotten she was there, he'd become so involved in his story, the memories so thick that they seemed to crowd his thoughts in the empty room.

"Yes. I believed her because I loved her. She was my child, my daughter. How could I not? How could I abandon her even when everyone else had and said I should too? Even when my own better judgment, my knowledge as a cop demanded it? I couldn't do it, couldn't leave her, always forgave her . . . until . . ."

Cameron took her hand from his face and placed it, palm down over his hand that still caressed her pregnant belly. Her gesture caused him to look at her again, his eyes containing a shadow of some dark, deep pain. In their mutual heartache, they were connected.

"Marie," he began and then stopped. How many years had it been since he'd said her name aloud? The syllables pierced his heart like a knife. His tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks as he continued.

"Marie had been gone for almost two months. When she came home that last time, she told me she was pregnant. She swore that this time was gonna be different. This time, she was gonna get clean, and stay clean, for her baby."

"The withdrawal almost killed her and she nearly lost the baby. Somehow, she pulled through. For five months, she stayed away from the stuff, avoided that old life, found a job, even talked about going back to school. But then . . ."

He lowered his head once more, fighting every impulse in his body to stop talking, to run. And yet, the young woman before him still needed him and as he told her his story, he felt the slight lifting of the oppressive weight he had been carrying on his heart for so very long. He needed to help her. He needed to unburden himself.

"I recognized the signs but I refused to believe it. I just didn't wanna accept that she'd gone back to that stuff, that she was throwing her life away again. I was working late on Christmas eve when I got the call."

Tritter's face became a mask of anguish as he choked back his sobs in order to keep talking. "Marie had gotten hold of some bad stuff. She'd OD'd. She died before I even got to the hospital. I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye to her."

Cameron clasped his hand. He was quietly sobbing but the effort to hold back the sound was shaking his entire body. She raised her other hand so that both hands now caressed his as they continued to lie across her stomach.

"And her baby? Marie's baby?"

"They delivered early, a little boy. But he was too sick. Her drug use had made him too frail. He died within a few of hours of his mother."

"I'm sorry," Cameron whispered.

"I had the little boy placed in her arms so that they could be buried together, so that she could always take care of him."

"And your wife will take care of them both."

Tritter jerked his hand away from her grasp. "Yeah, I used to believe in that crap. But now I know better. You have only this life and you have to take care of yourself. No one else will do it for you. Are you hearing me?" He stood up suddenly.

"Don't risk your life and the life of your baby for someone else, no matter who it is. You HAVE to take care of yourself! Do you understand?"

Cameron lay on the couch, looking up into his face, the face that had turned so suddenly from sorrow to anger and at the man who'd just explained his hatred and resentment toward doctors and drug users.

She was still so exhausted.

"Please don't be angry with me," she said as she closed her eyes again. "I'm just tired. This pregnancy makes me feel . . . so drained."

She heard him move close to her again and felt him take her hand.

"Sleep. I'll stay here so that you can get some rest."

"Thank you," she said. Overwhelming fatigue washed over her so that she could say no more, could no longer hear or feel anything except her drowsiness taking hold of her and carrying her away as if she were already in a dream.

That's why she never heard her pager's plaintive call before Tritter reached over to her belt and turned it off.


	73. Chapter 73

**73 – "Down in a hole, losing my soul. I'd like to fly but my wings have been so denied." – "Down in a Hole" – Alice in Chains**

House was falling again, falling into nothingness.

Nothing . . . nothing but darkness and immobility and learned helplessness.

Silver streaks raced across the inky blackness of his closed eyelids as occasional flashes of bright light burned his retinas.

His mind felt sluggish and his body, incapacitated as if it was surrounded by layer upon layer of wadded up newspaper and cotton balls.

Where was he?

He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything of value to help him make sense of his current situation.

Was anyone there with him? Someone had been. But that person had gone away and left him alone in the cold and the dark. Now he was afraid.

No. He was always afraid.

He felt as if he was forgetting something, something very important and his inability to make his mind perform was beginning to agitate him.

The one overarching constant that connected him to himself and to life was pain. He had been numb for awhile but the throbbing was coming back now, returning to his abdomen, his chest, his head and his damned right leg with a vengeance.

And joining them was a new ache. Cold liquid metal dripped into his arm and flowed through his veins. Someone was torturing him, teasing him. Taking his mind and wrapping it, warping it for some insane diversion of their own.

As he sloughed off unconsciousness, House began to waken to a terrible feeling of dread. Having no recollection of where he was and what had happened, a blind animal panic began to churn inside him.

He needed to speak, to shout. To tell someone that he was in here because obviously no one knew. No one was listening.

He tried to make a sound but the noise died away before the air left his lungs. There was something sticking in his throat. It was cold and hard and it was stabbing his mouth and chest.

The bastard who'd done this to him had made it impossible for him to call for help and that realization made the need to scream all the more overwhelming.

House reached up to grab the thing out of his throat and was immediately seized by someone. His assailant was still with him, making sure that he couldn't get help, couldn't call for help.

"_Help!"_

Terror started in his belly and moved, with great rapidity to his arms, legs and head. He began to thrash his limbs wildly as alarms went off on the edge of his perception. All the while, he was trying to scream but could not which only frightened him more.

There was a feeling of warm wetness on his arm and stomach as varied and confused sounds filled his ears. But he could not differentiate voices or words.

He felt hands, a number of hands grabbing his thrashing limbs, forcing his arms to his sides, his legs down. House tried to throw the hands off. He fought back even harder, lifting himself off the bed, into the unknown. More hands found him then and forced his shoulders back.

The effort of trying to move his right leg, his bad leg, caused it to spasm. House heard his own muffled screams of agony echo inside his head.

Hurt, fear and excruciating pain clouded his thoughts. He felt a sharp stab on his right side. Someone had just given him an injection into his hip and had not even tried to be subtle or keep from hurting him.

His muffled scream, this time one of anger against this latest cruelty, sounded deep in his chest without ever reaching his lips.

His breathing became more and more shallow and his heart felt as if it would burst from his chest as his struggles slowly grew more subdued.

Where the hell was he?

Was he back in Mayfield in the grip of some horrific, detox-inspired nightmare?

There was nothing he could do to keep the hands from tying his body down. He could feel the restraints being fixed to his arms and legs and finally, his head which had been ceaselessly shaking in a vain effort to escape and to continue silently screaming the one coherent thought his mind was able to form.

"_No!"_

That one thought, continuously looping through his brain encompassed everything he was feeling.

"_Stop it! I'm in pain! You're hurting me! Let me go! Take your hands off me!"_ along with any number of epithets and swears, all wordlessly flying through the transom of his mind and summed up, finally with that one thought.

"_No!"_

Greater awareness brought with it the realization that he was now in quite a bit of pain and that there was no way this was Mayfield. The staff there never immobilized his head and they never shoved anything in his mouth. His trachea was kept clear and he was always able to turn his head in order to avoid choking on his own vomit.

If not Mayfield, then where? It began to dawn on him that his levels of pain in combination with his fetters were not signs of his being in a good place.

He started to fight again, even harder this time but it was no use. He had been well secured in this nameless prison.

"_No!"_

House's body, mind and emotions were reaching an impasse, the equivalent of a systems overload for a high-tech computer. Something was going to give and give soon.

He opened his eyes in a last ditch effort to make contact, to plead his case but could distinguish no familiar patterns from the whirl of light and color.

So much confusion surrounded him now, pain and scattered visions and voices. He could distinguish nothing friendly, nothing that would save him from going down again.

So he let himself fall.

For it had finally struck him, he knew where he was. It came over him with a suddenness that made him cease all movement.

He'd broken the lamp. He'd broken his mother's favorite lamp playing ball in the house after he'd been told not to. His father had returned home first and surmised what had occurred even though Greg had gone to some lengths to cover up his misdeed.

John House had savagely beaten his son and then bound and gagged him, finally throwing him down into the dark and damp that lay at the bottom of the cellar steps. Greg remembered the pain that was all over his body and his inability to move or to cry out.

That's where he was. He was waiting on the floor of the cellar for his father who would either release him or lay into him again. There would be no help and no escape.

House felt his thoughts shift as they sometimes did when the only escape route open to him was in his own mind. His body stilled and became almost rigid, his heart and breathing slowed almost to a snail's pace.

His eyes fixed on a point of light far away and all else fell into shadow. He no longer heard any sounds or felt the bonds restricting his movements for in his mind he was away, he was free.

House was in a tunnel, an all-too familiar tunnel that he'd first entered as a young boy. A place where nothing else, no shouting, no pain existed, where he could hide himself away until it was safe to come out.

He felt the stinging sensation of another injection into his left hip before he slid down all the way to the bottom. He lay there in the dark and the quiet where no one could touch him, no one could reach him. He was like a rabbit who had sought cover, burrowing underground just as the hawks had circled overhead.

He wrapped the darkness around him like a familiar blanket, a blanket which purged all light, warmth, sound, feeling, emotion and hope from his frame of reference.

Of House's three levels of awareness, mind, body and emotions, it had been his brilliant mind that had succumbed first.


	74. Chapter 74

**74 – "****My grip is surely slipping, I think I've lost my hold. Yes, I think I've lost my hold . . . Is that a dagger or a crucifix I see you hold so tightly in your hand? And all the while the distance grows between you and me. I do not understand." – "Blood of Eden" – Peter Gabriel **

Cameron's long dark eyelashes fluttered open. She had not even realized that she'd fallen asleep.

It took her a few moments to remember where she was . . . and who she had been talking with right before sleep had overtaken her.

Cameron slid her hips to the armrest of the couch, sitting up in one quick, smooth action. Her fists rubbed her eyes to remove the last vestiges of grogginess while she continued to become more aware of herself and her surroundings.

"Sleep well?" a gravelly voice asked from her right side.

"Yes. I shouldn't have dozed off for . . . how long have I been asleep?"

"Five hours."

"Five hours!" Cameron shrieked. She flung her legs over the side of the couch and stood up so quickly that she nearly swooned.

Tritter's arms were suddenly around her once more.

"I think you'd better sit down again Dr. Cameron. You're still not very steady on your feet."

"I'm fine!" Cameron said. And then she calmed a bit, turning to look at him. "I am fine, really. Besides, I guess if my staff had needed me they would have paged me."

She turned to look at the device still attached to her belt. Tritter's arms slipped from her waist just as she did a double take to verify that her pager had been turned off.

"Did you turn this off?"

"You needed your rest."

"Dammit! You don't get to decide what's important!" she threw at him as she strode toward the door.

"Sucks when someone makes decisions that involve you without even asking doesn't it?" he said.

Cameron had just reached the door but Tritter's words stopped her in her tracks.

"You did that, you risked patient's lives, House's life, just to get even with me? Or was it to get even with him?" she said with more than a touch of venom in her voice.

"Why are you trying to do this all by yourself?" he said, moving toward her. "House has other people, other friends that still have no idea where he is because you lied to keep his presence here a secret. Why? It certainly wasn't for his benefit."

"You go to hell," she said coldly, flinging open the door and exiting the doctor's lounge.

Long before she reentered the ICU, Cameron could tell something was wrong. Johanna was nowhere to be seen and the other nurses seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her.

A deep sense of foreboding accompanied her as she walked into House's room. A small lamp on a side table provided the only light in the darkened room.

Cameron breathed a sigh of relief when she saw House's monitors. His heart rate and O2 sats were well within range but she could not shake the feeling of dread that was nagging at her. Something was terribly wrong.

She glanced over to her patient and was surprised to see that his eyes were open.

"House?"

No recognition flickered there, neither of her presence nor the fact that she'd called his name.

That was when she noticed the restraints.

"What in the hell . . .? Nurse! Nurse! I need you in here right now!"

One of the ICU nurses walked in, turning on the overhead lights as she did so. Cameron inhaled audibly as she got her first good look at House.

His arms and legs were strapped securely to the mattress and all seemed to have some bruising. There had been some bleeding on his left arm where it looked as if his IV lines had been tampered with.

Cameron stepped closer to examine him and saw that sure enough, his initial lines had been violently removed and new ones put in. His neck had been placed into a surgical collar and there were dark circles under his open, expressionless eyes.

"What the hell happened?"

"Dr. Cameron, we tried to page you but . . ."

"That's NOT what I asked," she said as she grabbed House's chart from the end of the bed. "I asked what happened . . . Holy God! Who authorized the use of morphine on this patient?"

"Dr. Dickerson prescribed . . ."

"This is MY patient! I specifically said NO opiates! Johanna knew I said . . ."

"Johanna told Dr. Dickerson what you said but since you didn't mark it on the patient's chart . . ."

"Oh my God! You mean to tell me that you have been torturing this patient because I left the room before I had a chance to . . ."

Johanna walked in, fresh tears in evidence in her large brown eyes.

"Dr. Cameron, I'm very sorry," she said in a low, shaking voice. "Dr. Dickerson took over your case. As head of ICU, he requests that you return to the ER."

Cameron turned to look beseechingly at her. "Johanna, what did they do to him?"

The other nurse, having no wish to either engage or listen to the ensuing tete-a-tete, returned to her station. As soon as she was gone, Johanna began to speak once more.

"Dr. Dickerson came in and decided to immediately administer pain medication. I tried to page you but you didn't answer. I told him you said to avoid opiates for this patient but he's by the book. He ignores anything that's not on the chart. The patient woke up agitated, he must've had a bad reaction. He ripped out his IV lines and tried to extubate himself. He had to be restrained to keep him from injuring himself further."

While she was talking, Cameron sank down in the chair next to House. She gently touched his bruised forearm as she gazed into his vacant eyes.

"Did they do this too?" she choked out. "Did they give him a paralytic or . . ."

"No doctor. After we'd secured the restraints he just suddenly stopped struggling on his own. He opened his eyes but didn't react to auditory or visual stimuli. He just went limp," Johanna suppressed a sniff. "He's been like that for hours now."

Cameron turned her full attention back to her patient. She bent forward to quietly speak into his ear.

"House, can you hear me? House?"

She leaned back and waved her hand in front of his face. When he didn't react, she gently slapped his cheek. House didn't even blink.

"Oh God, I'm sorry House. I'm so sorry," she said as huge tears welled in her eyes and began rolling down her cheeks.

Cameron reached for his hand and clasped it gently with her own. This was her fault, all her fault.

"He also opened up some of his stitches on his abdomen. We had to redress the wound," Johanna said as she stepped closer to Cameron, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He's alright now. Except for this . . ."

Cameron nodded her head to let Johanna know that she had heard. But she could not reply. She could only gently stroke House's hand and keep looking into his open, deadened eyes hoping for some spark, some proof of the life force that was ordinarily all-encompassing and so overwhelming in its power and energy.

But there was nothing. Nothing except a small candle hidden deep within the blue, a flicker of pain and despair and, perhaps for Cameron alone, betrayal.

Johanna crept out of the room to leave the doctor alone with her patient again.

Cameron felt numb. The one thing House had asked of her and she had let him down. She had not kept her word. She had not kept the opiates out of his system. She had not taken care of him.

She was starting to feel nauseous. She got up quickly, walking out of the ICU, directly into the ladies room. She went into the first stall where she vomited up the empty contents of her stomach.

Only now did she fully comprehend how her selfish desire to keep House all to herself had endangered, not only his sobriety and his recovery but his very life.

If Wilson or Cuddy had been here, they would never have allowed a mistake of this magnitude to occur. Indeed, if she had notified them as soon as House had been admitted, they probably would have insisted on transferring him as soon as he was stable to the relative safety of PPTH.

People knew him there, would have cared for him round the clock.

Cameron began crying in earnest. Her greed to keep House's existence at Princeton General a secret had been the means to destroy them both.

How far back had this set his recovery? Would she ever be able to forgive herself? Would he?

She rinsed her face in the sink with liberal splashes of cold water and dried her eyes with paper towels. Cameron stepped out of the bathroom, ready to suffer the consequences of her actions . . . House had already suffered enough from her inaction.

As she walked through the door, she bumped headfirst into Detective Tritter. Her lovely, expressive eyes sought his.

Without a hint of his usual sarcasm, he said, "Are you ready to ask for help now?"

Cameron slowly nodded her head. No longer able to meet his gaze, she lowered her eyes to the tile floor as Tritter began talking into his cell phone, telling the person on the other end of the line to come . . . and to come quickly.


	75. Chapter 75

**75 – "Every time I think of you, I always catch my breath. And I'm 'lying' here and you're miles away and I'm wonderin' why you left. . . And there's a message that I'm sending out, like a telegraph to your soul. And if I can't bridge this distance, stop this heartbreak overload. . ." – "Missing You" – John Waite **

Sleep had proven elusive to Lisa Cuddy for yet another successive night. Although she was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster that had been the previous day, her concern for House and his whereabouts had kept her mind active throughout the night. Her body too bore out how unyielding she was physically to relaxation, making her tendons and muscles feel as tense as over-tightened guitar strings.

The few times she had drifted off, her dreams were filled with two pairs of blue eyes ceaselessly glaring at her in accusation. The last time she had seen them, both sets had been filled with anger, betrayal and shame.

One pair was now closed forever. At that realization, the sights and sounds of she and Wilson's ill-fated experience at the morgue and the subsequent guilt she'd barely kept at bay washed over her once more.

For solace, her thoughts turned to the second, more dazzling pair that haunted not only her dreams but her waking visions as well. Cuddy was denied the comfort usually inspired by the mere thought of those eyes as she wondered, rolling over for the umpteenth time, when or even if, she would ever see them again.

She stretched forth her arm to brush the silken surface of the pillow next to her. She imagined House lying there, safe in her home, wrapped in the covers of her bed and the tenderness of her embrace.

That image only made her tears come again in her aching solitude and desperate need for his return.

She felt a twinge in both her heart and below her stomach at the memory of only a few nights before when she had lightly dozed off in the comfort and security of his arms. When she had woken up, she stared for quite some time at him, at his sleep-caressed face, at his eyelids, serenely closed over the holy temple of his eyes.

Cuddy's heart raced at her mind's echo of the sound of his deep, steady breathing and the consoling beat of his heart in his lean chest. How could she go on without ever knowing those sights and sounds, those feelings again? Would she even want to?

The striking comprehension came to her that life without House would be merely endured, a hollow existence she would undertake only for the sake of her daughter.

Her thoughts and emotions continued to circle each other, colliding together in a tornado-like vortex that struck at her very soul. What could she do? How would she find him?

A prayer rose unbidden to her lips. Silently she thanked the indefinable for House himself, for the person that he was even with all his foibles, vanities and idiosyncrasies.

And then she raised her voice to speak, whispering to the one person to whom she felt the most connected, the one whose life and love was so intertwined with her very breath. The words emanating from the depths of her soul sought the sliver of a strand that connected her soul to his.

For in the quiet of early morning she somehow knew that he was still alive. The enormity of his spirit flickered like a candle, a flame that he himself lit long ago within the intimacy of their first passionate embrace. It had not yet been doused. She knew House lived on because her soul lived on, whole and unbroken.

So she spoke to him through the connection that she'd always somehow maintained with him through all the years and arguments and hurt feelings and euphoria as well. She spoke through the soul of love.

"House? House? Can you hear me? I know you're still here. Please. Hear me. Help us find you. Help us find wherever you are. My dearest love. My only love. Help me find you again. So that we will never part. House. Please."

Cuddy's voice broke with emotion. She began silently weeping once more.

Eventually, when there were no more tears to be shed, she rose up and swathed herself in her softest robe seeking to soothe the ache of her mind, body and soul. Quietly, she tip-toed out to the living room.

The early morning glow illuminated the form of James Wilson who lay on his back on the couch. Although his eyes were closed, the lack of snoring suggested that he too had been unable to find sleep.

Wilson had insisted on staying, as much for his own consolation as for hers and she had finally agreed only after they went to his condo to pick up a change of clothes and a few items for the next day.

Cuddy was loath to disturb him so she turned to go back to her bedroom when his groggy voice broke the silence.

"I'm awake."

"Trouble sleeping?" she asked.

"Yeah, you?"

"I doubt if I even slept half an hour all night. Coffee?"

"Great, thanks."

"I'll get it started. Then I'll check on Rachel."

Wilson sat up, rubbing his fists into his bloodshot eyes. "Why don't you start the coffee and I'll peek in to see if Rachel's still asleep. If she is, I'll just take a quick shower . . ."

Babbling from Rachel's room interrupted Wilson's monologue.

"I'll get her," Cuddy said. "Why don't you start the coffee? Coffeemaker's on the counter and the coffee and filters are in the cabinet right above."

Wilson lazily scratched his head and yawned before nodding his assent. "I'll start breakfast too."

Cuddy smiled. "Thanks, but I'm not really hungry."

Wilson looked earnestly at her. "You need to keep up your strength. And Rachel has to eat anyway."

She sighed, "Fine. But just some cereal, okay?"

"Oatmeal?"

"God Wilson. You're worse than my mother."

"Well I was raised by a Jewish mother too ya know. C'mon, a hot meal will be good for all of us, especially Rachel."

She nodded. The fact of the matter was that she did want to see Rachel eat something substantial before she left her for the day. Marina had agreed to forsake her day off and watch Rachel while she and Wilson continued their search for House.

And Cuddy realized another benefit to Wilson making them breakfast. It would make Wilson feel better.

They had argued last night. Obviously the tension and emotions of the day had taken their toll on the two friends.

But Cuddy had been particularly aggravated to find that Wilson had postponed calling the local hospitals because he'd waited instead to hear back from the Princeton Police Department. By the time he realized he was unlikely to hear anything from the cops, he decided it was too late to call the surrounding hospitals.

Cuddy had vented her dismay and frustration upon him and Wilson had, after initially arguing with her, found himself disheartened into silence. It was then that she found she had no desire to direct her anger at a target unwilling to fight back. The two friends grudgingly agreed to a ceasefire until they found House.

Rachel was left in her crib until Cuddy got out of the shower. By the time she dressed her daughter, Marina had arrived to help her feed Rachel while Wilson went to get cleaned up.

Less than 20 minutes later, Wilson had just stepped out of the shower when he heard Cuddy knocking on the door of her guest bathroom.

"Out in a minute!" Wilson shouted through the still closed door.

"Where's your cell?"

"What?"

"Where's your cell phone? I just heard it ringing but I couldn't find it in time to answer it. It could've been important."

Wilson dressed quickly and exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam as he dragged his fingers through his still damp hair.

Just as he made it back out into the living room, he heard the familiar ring tone. He finally found the phone after throwing off the cushions of the couch. He flipped it open just before it went into voicemail.

"Dr. James Wilson?"

Wilson was momentarily stunned. He knew that voice.

"Detective . . . Detective Tritter?"

"How nice of you to remember."

"Are you kidding? I'm still trying to forget."

Wilson heard the chuckle on the other end. "No wonder House wound up taking drugs, with all the selfish bastards surrounding him."

Wilson felt his skin flush with anger. Just as he was about bellow his response, he felt Cuddy's calming hand on his arm.

"Is there a reason you called me? I mean a recent reason and not just so we can take a stroll down memory lane?"

Tritter laughed again. "That's funny. Dr. Cameron said almost the exact same thing."

"Cameron?" Wilson said as he felt Cuddy tighten her grip on his arm.

"Are you still friends with Gregory House?"

"Of course. But what does Cameron have to do . . .?"

"If you're interested in helping House, then you'll get down to Princeton General as fast as possible. Do you understand?"

"House is at . . .?"

Tritter's voice sounded louder through the earpiece, "Dr. Wilson! Do you understand me?"

"Yes. I'm coming. I'm leaving now. Oh and Detective Tritter? Thank you."

There was no response on the other end as Wilson closed his phone.

He turned immediately to Cuddy whose eyes were wide with shock and concern. "House is at Princeton General. We have to get there now."

"I'll get our coats," she said, grateful to turn her face away from him and to make a quick exit as she tried to quell the pounding of her panicked heart.


	76. Chapter 76

**76 – "W****e are sleeping in a canyon where the walls rise up to the sky. We could reach the rim by standing and begin to breathe with a sigh." – "Coming Up for Air" – Patty Larkin**

Cameron's moist eyes followed Tritter's hand as he snapped his cell phone shut, placing it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

In that moment, the pivotal point in which she resigned her safeguarding of House to others who would soon come to claim him, Cameron's thoughts became suspended in time. She began to recall all the times she felt she had protected House, had tried to help him or just soothe the festering wound that was in his soul.

Her most recent venture into this rose-colored series of reminiscences, involved her desire to heal him with her body. He had been hurting and yet, so had she. They had sought solace with each other and within each other as their hearts reeled from the damage inflicted upon them; hers as her marriage had begun to fall apart and his from Lisa Cuddy's rejection of his advances.

She savored the memory like fine wine, closing her eyes to focus on her beating heart and upon the life they had created together now growing inside her womb. This child, House's child, made it all worth it, even the subsequent separation from him. For now she could never be totally divided from him again. Her child was his child and would always bridge the ensuing gap of passing years to that brief window of time they were together and truly loved one another, no matter how poignant and ephemeral.

Cameron allowed her mind to wander even farther back, to when House's leg had, after briefly becoming pain free from the Ketamine treatment, began to deteriorate once more. It seemed as if life had given him a glimpse into the realm of true possibility, of what he could have, only to cruelly snatch it away again in an assault on his psyche of depression and pain.

The depression had been assisted and partially inflicted by the efforts of House's supposed best friends, Wilson and Cuddy, who had colluded to keep from him his correct diagnosis of a patient. They said they hid the truth from him in order to teach House humility.

But why did Gregory House need humility? So that he could be like everyone else? Common?

House was nothing if not completely uncommon. It was his extraordinary ability to think outside the box that enabled him to come up with unique diagnoses and save lives no other doctor could save.

When she stumbled upon the former patient one day in the clinic, it had been Cameron to champion House's cause, to stand up against both Cuddy and Wilson and demand they tell him the truth. Their lie was hurting him physically in the degradation of his leg and mentally as he became overly cautious with their latest young patient.

Cuddy and Wilson had to be stopped. Only Cameron demanded that they do so in her singular defense of House.

But now Cuddy and Wilson had been told of House's presence here. Who else would Tritter call? They would come and take House away from her and her protection. They would steal him away from her and her need to love him.

Sure, she had made a mistake with his treatment but it had not been predicated on the idea that she knew what was best for him better than himself. That type of action was limited to Cuddy and Wilson. A mistake was different from a direct, plotted methodology.

Maybe Cuddy and Wilson coming to claim House was a mistake after all.

But what could she do now? Surely they were already on their way. They couldn't possibly be delayed or stopped at this point.

Tritter had been watching her all this time, at her small trembling form and as the wheels were obviously turning in her head.

"Why don't you take a nap in the doctors' lounge again?" he said, "You look like you could really use some more sleep."

Cameron's eyes still held a few last unshed tears as she looked up at him. "No, she said through gritted teeth. "I left him alone before and bad things happened to him. I'm not going to make the same mistake twice."

She turned to go but Tritter's voice followed her down the hall, stopping her in her place.

"Mistakes were made. It's not your fault," Tritter replied.

"Yes, it was," she said. And even if it wasn't my fault he was hurt. From this point on if anything else bad happens to him it WILL be my fault. I have to go to him."

Tritter's eyes glittered and his voice took on a vicious undertone. "Oh yeah, that's right. You worked under him. "As it turns out WAY under him."

Cameron couldn't stop herself from blushing in reaction to his allusion.

"Is that where this God complex comes from?" he continued. "Is it passed down from teacher to student, from impregnator to impregnatee, from House to you? This idea that you're responsible for everything that happens to your patient and that only you can save him. What a crock!"

Cameron's eyebrows lowered. Her fatigue, anger and sorrow over the impending loss of the man she loved from her immediate orbit made her lash out. "Just let me do my job. I would think you of all people could understand that particular responsibility. You're committed to your job. So committed in fact that you ignored your daughter in the process. Isn't that why she turned to drugs?"

Tritter looked like she'd slapped him. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed the dry lump of clay that had suddenly sprung into his mouth.

"Fine. You go do what you feel you have to, what you need to."

"Detective Tritter, I'm sorry, I . . ."

He waved her off. "Don't worry about it. Go take care of your precious House. He needs you."

She sighed heavily. "We both have our jobs to do. You let me do mine and I'll let you do yours." She paused, a realization suddenly striking her. "Why haven't you called your department to have Lucas Douglas arrested?

A strange look crossed his hardened features. Most people probably would not have caught it. But Cameron had learned to recognize subtlety while under House's tutelage so she not only saw the look but interpreted it correctly as well.

"You never called? Why? You made a promise! You promised him!"

"I didn't have to call to have a unit pick him up. He was already picked up yesterday . . . by the M.E. Lucas Douglas is dead."

"Then why didn't you tell House?" Cameron was livid. "He was in pain, possibly dying. You couldn't give him some comfort? You couldn't ease his mind just a bit when he was so worried?"

"Yeah, and who was he worried about? Not you! You're carrying his baby and he doesn't give a damn about you! Some things never change! You're willing to sacrifice yourself and your baby for a man that is finished with you!"

"That's not true!" Cameron's eyes flooded with tears again.

"Isn't it? Why else have you kept him here under your personal supervision and under wraps from the authorities and his friends at Princeton Plainsboro?"

"I already told you . . ."

"You told me nothing but lies. You've been lying to me since I got here. But I guess I shouldn't take it personally. You've been lying to yourself longer than you've been lying to me."

"What do you mean?" she said weakly, afraid of the answer.

"Just that you've created this fantasy that House will wake up and see you and realize you're the one he wants. Then the both of you and your baby will go off to a little cabin or condo somewhere where you'll all live happily ever after. Isn't that what you're hoping for?"

"You don't know anything about me or how I feel or what I want," she said. Then she turned and marched determinedly back up the corridor.

She was resolved to do what she could for House while she still had a few precious minutes with him.

And she just wasn't going to give Tritter the satisfaction of seeing he'd made her cry.

House had no idea what time it was. Neither did he know where he was. But he tenaciously held a fragile grip on who he was.

He was still floating in a realm of his own creation where there was no light and no feeling, save for the constant throbbing in his arm, belly, leg and heart.

There was for House nothing and no one. He was shrouded in a vast well of darkness and silence.

Yet, surprisingly, increasingly, there was a sound. It was only dimly discernible at first from the vast, crushing silence that had encased him like a glacier and had frozen his thoughts and his heart.

Someone was calling him, someone important. She was calling his name.

"_House?"_

Who was it?

"_House?" _

The voice was stronger now. But he did not hear it with his ears. Instead, the voice filled and echoed through his heart.

"_Can you hear me?" _

"I can hear you."

"_I know you're still here. Please. Hear me. Help us find you. Help us find wherever you are." _

"But I don't know where I am." House struggled to see, to recognize some marker of his position, his place on the vast continent of unconscious experience.

"I can't help you. I can't even help myself."

"_My dearest love. My only love." _

And then he knew. His heart called to her rising up from his lake of despair with the wing beats of birds. It flew upward from his chest to finally soar through his parched, anguished lips.

"Cuddy?"

Cameron looked over at her patient. House's lips had begun moving almost as soon as she had taken the breathing tube out of his throat and inserted the oxygen tube in his nose.

But whatever he was saying at first was inaudible. Cameron assumed that House was in the grip of some feverish nightmare, his silent words accentuating his continued glassy stare. He was lost somewhere within a maze of his own thoughts and opiate-inspired visions.

From somewhere within his fevered landscape however, House called out. His voice was raspy and hushed but clear. He called for his rescuing angel, for his own true love. And the name that had come out had not been Cameron's.

She looked once more at his worn features, into the eyes she still dreamed about and loved.

"_Help me find you. So that we will never part again. House. Please."_

"Cuddy!" House spoke more forcefully this time. And then he was still again.

Cameron had been looking at him when he'd called Cuddy's name a second time. For a moment, only an infinitesimal interval, the life had come back into his eyes. They had shown like a welder's arc, burning bright blue before the fire there had just as quickly been extinguished; the fire that burned for someone else, for another woman, for her and her alone.

Just as she felt her heart drop within her chest, a terrible slicing pain wrenched through Cameron's abdomen. She doubled over in agony and pitched forward, yelling for a nurse as she fell to her knees on the cold, tiled floor.

Through the glass doors of the ICU, Detective Tritter witnessed a flurry of activity. Alarms seemed to be sounding and several nurses rushed into House's room.

For a moment Tritter wished with all his might that House would die this time, that the monkey on Dr. Cameron's back would be shaken off forever. That thought was permanently erased however as a gurney flashed past him and in no time flat, wheeled back out of the ICU with Cameron, looking ashen and grave, on top.

He trotted after the team who were taking vitals and giving orders as they rolled Cameron toward the elevators. Tritter removed his phone from his pocket once more, this time pressing the buttons as he had only pretended to do before in front of Dr. Cameron.

There was no longer any reason to deceive her. This time he put the call through, waiting impatiently until Dr. James Wilson picked up on the other end.


	77. Chapter 77

**77 – "****We are swaying like a willow that is weeping over the view. We could wave goodbye and fly into the hills and into the blue. Coming up for air, rising to a very new somewhere. Coming up for air on the last breath around." – "Coming Up for Air" – Patty Larkin**

Lisa Cuddy wasted no time on the ride over to Princeton General. As Wilson drove, stoically keeping his eyes on the road, Cuddy contacted the administrator of PG and made all the necessary arrangements to have House transferred to PPTH as soon as they arrived. As a professional courtesy, he connected her with the ICU and she talked to several of the staff who had attended House, most notably Dr. Dickerson, head of the department.

Cuddy slapped the phone, shutting it off in frustration.

"What is it?" Wilson said.

"This Dr. Dickerson is an idiot. He gave House morphine."

"What?"

"The nurse in ICU said the head of ER left verbal instructions not to give House any opiate-based drugs. But this moron only goes by what's written on the chart. So whatever injuries House has sustained, we might also be looking at another detox, depending on how much they injected into him."

Wilson silently digested this new information. Why did the ER doc know not to give House opiates? Had House been awake when he was admitted?

Suddenly, Wilson remembered. It had temporarily slipped his mind that Tritter had specifically mentioned Cameron. Was Cameron head of Princeton General's ER? If so, why hadn't SHE called him or Cuddy when House first came in? What the hell was going on? What was she thinking?

Wilson continued to turn all the different scenarios he could come up with over in his head. His decision whether or not to discuss his theories and reintroduce Cameron's possible involvement with the situation was made as soon as he glanced to his right. Cuddy was pressing her palm to her forehead, her eyes squeezed shut as if she were in tremendous pain.

"Headache?"

"No. Well, kind of. I just want to get there. I need to see him and end this nightmare."

"I know," he said, taking his right hand from the steering wheel to clasp Cuddy's left. "So do I."

Wilson and Cuddy stood holding hands in front of the glass doors leading into Princeton General's ICU. They had come so far together in the past few days.

But now, now that they were nearly at the end of their journey, they hesitated. Even after the information Cuddy received over the phone and shared with Wilson, they knew they were ill prepared to face the reality that awaited them just beyond those doors.

As a nurse approached to escort them both into the ICU, Cuddy asked Wilson for a few extra minutes alone. Wilson nodded and reluctantly followed the nurse through the doors.

Cuddy thought about what she had been through since the day House came back into her life. She also thought about the amazing highs and unbelievable lows House had directly and indirectly put her through the past 72 hours.

Would life with House always be this frenetic? This insane? Perhaps not literally, but emotionally? Cuddy felt that she'd barely survived all the events that had occurred since she and House had been together. She knew she could not go through it again or put her daughter through similar circumstances. But did being in love with House mean that she no longer had a choice whether to partake in similar emotional upheavals?

Her ruminations were put to an end with the reappearance of the ICU nurse. Cuddy silently followed the woman through the doors and into the room Wilson had walked into minutes before.

Even though Cuddy had taken those few minutes to steel herself for what she might see, she still felt as if she had received a sharp blow to the chest at the sight that met her vision when she at last entered the ICU.

Wilson sat on House's right side, quietly talking to him as the tears rolled down his face. Another nurse was checking House's IV line and even from this distance, Cuddy could see his ravaged arm, the marks from his first lines standing out in bruised contrast to his pale skin.

House himself was center stage, lying ghastly white on the bed, still secured by the restraints that had been placed on him hours before. His azure eyes were open but impassive and the machines attached to him seemed to accentuate the tenuous grip that his body had on life.

Cuddy inhaled fully and squared her shoulders. House needed someone to fight for him. The staff at Princeton General had done what they could but had obviously reached their limit. Wilson was too emotional.

It was up to her, all of it was on her. Just like when he had his infarction, his life was once again in her hands. And just like before, she was not going to give up without a fight.

"Why the hell is he still strapped down?" she said. "Wilson! Help me get these things off of him."

Wilson immediately moved to perform as she bade him as Cuddy read over House's chart.

When that was done, she asked the nurses to leave the room and moved as close to House as she possibly could. She gently stroked his cherished face, gazing resolutely into his eyes.

"House!" And then more quietly, she began to call to him, gently but determinedly as she told him that he needed to come back to her now.

House was drifting on a sea of shadows. He felt disconnected to the pain that still rampaged through his nerve fibers, isolating him from whatever sounds and flashes that played across his consciousness.

He only wanted to sleep. That great final sleep where he would never feel pain in his body or soul again.

He dreamed that he was in a boat that was floating down river. The boat had no oars so he was powerless to move it this way or that. The rushing flow of water and the rocks controlled the boat's progress at it sailed down the river.

He watched somewhat disinterested as the water rushed past him, pushing the boat first left then right. He was heading toward a monstrous waterfall whose presence was hailed by the rapidly moving water and a thick mist that had settled over everything.

Just as it seemed he would be diving over the falls, the boat reached an eddy. It rocked to and fro in the quieter water, circling round and round.

House looked down as he placed his hand in the water next to the boat. He scooped a palm full of the liquid and brought it up to his parched lips. But before he could drink it, the water seeped through his fingers.

A shadow fell across the boat and House looked up to see an eagle flying overhead, momentarily blocking the sun. He watched as the eagle flew away, heading past the river and the eddy, where House was caught and over the falls to the ocean beyond.

A gurgling sound made him look down. The boat was taking on water. An inch or more now covered the bottom.

House raised his eyes once more. If he could only fly like that eagle, he could get there, he could reach the ocean.

"_House!"_

He would never reach the ocean in a leaking boat without oars.

"_House! Can you hear me? Please come back."_

He was trapped in the whirlpool. He was going nowhere.

_House! Don't you dare leave me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere without you again. Blink if you can hear me."_

Who was calling him? The voice sounded so familiar, so impassioned, so sad.

"_I know you're in there somewhere. Please, let me know you're still there."_

His mind did not know whose voice it was. But his heart knew. It had known all along.

House slowly closed his eyes and then just as slowly opened them again.

He heard what sounded like sighs of relief and then the voice that felt as if it had reached inside him and had grasped hold of his heart, spoke again.

"House? Blink again if you can still hear me. Let me see you blink those beautiful blue eyes for me. Only for me. C'mon House. Do it for me?"

Her voice was soothing with a touch of desperation. But like a lovely melody, his heart followed its tempo. It was leading the way forward, the way out, the way to her.

He closed and opened his eyes once more.

This time there was some relieved laughter and he felt soft lips pressing against his cheek.

"Thank you," the voice whispered. "Thank you for not leaving me."

The boat was pushed out of the eddy. House felt the chasm of the falls yawning below him. He gave in to trust, to his heart, as he plummeted over the cascade of water.

"Cuddy?" he rasped hoarsely.

Her relieved chuckle once more filled his ears.

"Yes House. I'm here. Wilson and I are both here. We'll take care of you now."

House felt a strong squeeze on his right shoulder. That had to be Wilson. He gradually refocused his eyes. Lisa Cuddy's lovely face coalesced in front of him. Her sea-colored eyes were full of tears and tear tracks stained her cheeks.

He reached up with one hand and cupped her face. She closed her eyes as she stroked her cheek against his fingertips. Turning his eyes to his right, he saw Wilson who was crying too.

"Wuss," House said.

Wilson chuckled and then took House's free hand, giving it a squeeze.

House turned his attention back to her. For a moment, he saw only her. He looked at Cuddy like when he'd seen her at Rick's party a lifetime ago. But for his heart, it was only yesterday. And if he felt that way, perhaps she could as well.

"I'm too stubborn an ass to die," he said.

"House, don't try to talk," Cuddy said furtively.

"You wish." And then he smiled.

"Sleep House." Cuddy brought her own hand up to touch House's fingertips as he still held her face. "Sleep now my love."

House's hand dropped back to his side. His eyes began to blink slower and slower until they remained closed as sleep finally overtook him. So he slept as if he hadn't slept for a hundred years.


	78. Chapter 78

**78 – "****I know you're still just a dream. Your eyes might be . . . the bluest that I've ever seen . . . I need you before I'm too old, to have and to hold, to walk with you and watch you grow." – "Blessed" – Elton John**

While House slept, all the paperwork was finalized facilitating his immediate transfer to Princeton Plainsboro. Cuddy, whom House had listed as both his employer and, surprisingly, medical proxy and Wilson, listed as his next of kin, found no overriding issues to hinder the move.

Their next course of action was the transfer itself. They agreed that Cuddy would ride in the ambulance with House and Wilson would follow soon afterward with the car.

When it was time to leave however, Wilson made his excuses to Cuddy, telling her he would "Be along in a few minutes," after he'd had a consult with a staff member from Princeton General.

It wasn't a complete fabrication. But Wilson allowed Cuddy to assume he was lagging behind to confer with a fellow oncologist when his real intention was something quite different.

The truth of the matter was that Wilson had examined House's chart as soon as he'd entered his friend's room in the ICU. He at once recognized Cameron's feminine, loopy penmanship and became set on tracking down and confronting the owner of that particular handwriting. At this point, he had a mass of questions weighing heavily upon him and he knew that only Allison Cameron could provide the answers he needed.

Wilson found it surprisingly easy to wheedle himself into the good graces of the ICU nursing staff. He employed his boyish good looks and charm, skillfully gaining their trust as Dr. Cameron's "old friend."

As soon as he left them to find Cameron, the nurses congratulated themselves upon finally discovering the identity of the father of Dr. Cameron's baby. Allison was fortunate, for if her baby favored the father, he would be an intelligent and handsome child indeed.

Johanna alone, though appreciating Dr. Wilson's obvious appeal, maintained her original theory regarding the baby's father. But she also continued to keep her own counsel with regards to that opinion.

Once he stepped off the elevator on the designated floor, Wilson began to second guess his good fortune. Perhaps the nurses had sent him on a wild goose chase after all? Why else had they directed him to the hospital's ob-gyn/maternity ward?

But all of his doubts were erased as soon as he spied the physical manifestation of his morning caller. Detective Tritter strode down the hall and entered a room located second from the end of the unit. Wilson paused a few minutes near the nurse's station and then followed him into the room.

The sight that befell him was nearly as shocking as the one he'd experienced a few hours before in the ICU. Cameron was lying on a bed nearest the window, multiple monitors attached with wires and tubes to her arms and belly. Her obviously pregnant abdomen was exposed and a woman in a white lab coat sat next to the bed performing a sonogram. The coldhearted Detective Tritter meanwhile, was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed holding Cameron's outstretched hand.

"What the . . .?" Wilson was barely able to refrain from uttering an oath.

Cameron and Tritter both looked up. The detective immediately stood and moved toward Wilson, clearly intending to usher him outside.

"Dr. Wilson, if we could just speak alone," Tritter said, an authoritative note to his voice.

"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers first!"

"Oh you're going alright. If I have to arrest you, I will. And you should know me well enough that whatever charges I can come up with, I'll make stick."

"I'm a doctor! You can't order me out of a hospital room!"

"And I'm a cop. I can do whatever the hell I please."

"Enough!" The woman performing the sonogram had finally reached her limit. Her russet skin flushed burnt sienna as her anger made the blood rise to her cheeks. "I'm Dr. Cameron's DOCTOR which means I outrank all of you and I say everyone out! Right now! The only people I want in this room with me are Dr. Cameron and Dr. Cameron's fetus. If anyone else is in here by the time I count three, I'm calling security!"

"No!" it was Cameron who spoke up this time. "I need to speak to Dr. Wilson. Please let him stay."

All heads turned toward the woman lying in the bed. Wilson gazed at Cameron open-mouthed. What had she to say to him? Wasn't she afraid of taking the blame for House's current circumstances? Didn't she realize that he would, true to his nature, advocate for House?

"It can wait," he found himself saying. "You should listen to your doctor. You need to take care of yourself and . . . your baby."

Her baby. House's baby. Isn't that what he meant to say? Isn't that what he'd surmised as soon as he walked into the room? Maybe he even knew beforehand. Maybe he'd always known. Only something this big could keep Cameron away from his best friend after she'd finally gotten her mitts on him.

No, that was impossible. He could never have suspected, never have known. And what made him completely sure that she was carrying House's baby? Wilson had no idea when Cameron had slept with her husband last.

How did he even know that the father was either House or Chase? Cameron was an intelligent, attractive woman. She could have had any number of lovers between Chase and House.

In his heart of hearts however, Wilson knew that was unlikely. Their conversation from the morning he'd picked her up at the diner came rushing in upon him. Everything that morning, her admission that she'd seduced House, her words, her expressions all gave evidence to the fact that her naive fascination and the crush she had on House was still in full effect.

But that did not necessarily mean that she carried House's baby. She admitted to Chase that she had kept her first husband's sperm. Couldn't her child be the result of a decision to go through IVF?

Wilson reminded himself that her confession regarding the frozen sperm was revealed at the 11th hour before her wedding to Chase, probably as a ploy to put him off again. And to delay her commitment, to Wilson's way of thinking, in the vain hope that there would be some kind of last minute rally from House's corner.

Cameron may have hoped that House would protest her ensuing nuptials and finally declare his undying love for her. In that area, Wilson felt that Cameron had always been laboring under the delusion of some sort of romantic, fairytale starring House as her prince charming.

But no matter what scenario Wilson could invent for Cameron and her baby, the picture would eventually always include House.

Why else had she run away months ago only to sneak back to Princeton as her due date approached? Surely it was only to be near the father of her child. And why else did she want to speak to him alone now if the conversation would not circle back to House? What was Cameron's end game?

Cameron's doctor finished performing the sonogram.

"We've stabilized your baby for the time being. But you cannot put yourself under this kind of stress again," the doctor's fluid East Indian accent became more noticeable as her agitation increased. "Too much time on your feet, too much on your mind. And obviously not enough sleep. When was the last time you ate?"

Tritter spoke up. "She hasn't eaten in over 24 hours."

The doctor's eyebrows lowered, creating a straight angry line just above her long, dark lashes. Her black eyes flashed dangerously as she hissed, "What are you thinking? Are you purposely TRYING to lose this baby?"

Tears filled Cameron's eyes as she shook her head. "No, I just . . . I'm sorry. I want this baby. I want him more than anything in the world."

"I find that hard to believe." The words were out of Wilson's mouth before he even knew he'd said them. All eyes turned to look at him with varying expressions of curiosity, outrage and anger.

"Dr. Wilson, if you'll accompany me outside, we can finish this conversation in private," Tritter began while placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"No, please. I want him to stay. I NEED him to stay. Please?" Cameron looked from her doctor to Tritter, her eyes pleading. "Please?"

The doctor got up, tossing her long, black, braided hair over her shoulder. "Calm down. To keep you from upsetting yourself, I will give you a few minutes. But bear in mind," and here she pointed to the doorway, "I am going to be right outside your door and if I hear anything like raised voices or heart rate monitors beeping faster, I am coming back in here and sedating you faster than you can say 'jackrabbit.' You are MY patient now Dr. Cameron and your baby is MY patient too. That means I'm giving the orders. Understood?"

Cameron nodded solemnly.

Tritter still looked reluctant but when Cameron met his eyes again, he quickly shifted his gaze to the doctor who was making her way toward the door.

"I'll get Dr. Cameron something to eat from the cafeteria. Any suggestions?"

The doctor bestowed upon him an appreciative glance. "Several. I'd be grateful for the assistance."

Tritter gave Wilson a very severe look before turning and following the doctor out of the room.

Wilson found himself unnerved again. Tritter had just given him a silent warning on behalf of Cameron. How Tritter had come to be protective of her or how he'd gotten involved at all was one of the many questions he hoped the young woman lying in the bed could answer.

He turned to face Cameron once more. Her upper body was propped against some pillows and she lay there placidly, brushing her hand back and forth across her protruding belly.

"Mind if I sit down?" He said quietly.

To his surprise, she gestured, not to the nearby chair, but instead patted the edge of the bed beside her. Wordlessly, he walked over and seated himself where she had indicated.

"I guess you already know why I'm here," he began. "Tritter called me. We're taking House back to PPTH to continue his care." Wilson strained to keep his voice soft. "Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you let me or Cuddy know he was here?"

"I don't know."

"No Cameron. That's not good enough. That's a child's answer."

Fat tears began leaking out of the corners of her eyes. "At first, there wasn't time. When he came in, he coded right away. I've been fighting to keep him alive . . ."

"That's your excuse for when he first came in. But you've had plenty of time since he was admitted when other doctors and nurses were looking after him. You couldn't take a few minutes to call me? Or Cuddy?"

Wilson's voice grew louder. "Princeton Police called us down to the county morgue to identify his body. The morgue Cameron! Cuddy and I thought he was dead! None of it had to happen. Just one phone call, that was all, one quick phone call and you could have put our minds at rest. Do you know what we've been through? What you've put us through?"

Cameron's tears seemed to stop suddenly as if someone had turned off a faucet. "What YOU'VE been through?" She brushed the hair and the last vestiges of moisture from her eyes.

"I held his life in my hands! I've had to fight for his life every moment since he was admitted! He coded several times, the last one was this morning. I brought him back! Me! Everyone else was ready to call time of death except for me! It was like he WANTED to die. And I had to fight tooth and nail against him and everyone else to keep him here, to keep him alive."

Her voice grew stronger with her pious anger. "Why would House want to die? Why did he fight me so hard? He told Tritter this morning that Cuddy's boyfriend STABBED him! What have you and Cuddy been doing to him?"

Wilson felt the blood run to his cheeks. He did feel culpable. And he knew Cuddy did as well. He placed his hands in front of him in a 'stop' gesture to quiet her.

"Don't upset yourself. Please, calm down. You don't want to hurt . . ." he couldn't go on. His liquid brown eyes filled with tears.

Cameron reached out her hand and placed it on his. "I guess none of us can be very proud of ourselves, especially over the last few days." She raised her large, blue-grey eyes to his, "I'm sorry Wilson. I'm sorry I worried you. I'm even sorry I worried Cuddy. I just couldn't think . . . I just didn't want to think about living in a world without _him_ in it. And I couldn't think about anything else other than saving his life. Nothing else mattered. Not you, not Cuddy, not even his . . ."

"His baby?" Wilson finished for her.

She nodded. "No. Not even his baby." Her voice was barely more than a breath.

Wilson steadfastly met her gaze. "Does House know?"

"No. He was unconscious most of the time and the few times he was awake I don't think he saw . . ."

Wilson turned his hand over, palm up and interlaced his fingers with hers. He let out a long, mournful sigh.

"What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know," she answered.

"Are you gonna tell him? He has a right to know."

"Yes, I guess he does. But I can't tell him now. He needs to get better first. And . . . my selfishness has caused him enough pain. I don't want to hurt him any more."

Wilson looked at her, a thousand questions shining in his eyes. Was Cameron serious? Or was this just another ploy, another piece of a huge tapestry of lies and manipulation to regain House?

"You need to heal too. And take care of the baby."

"Yes." She took her hand, still holding Wilson's and placed both their palms against her abdomen. A flood of emotions overwhelmed her, remorse, love for House and the child, his child she carried. But foremost of everything she was a feeling of gratitude as the baby moved inside her. She raised her eyes to Wilson's face as she saw his eyes fill with wonder.

"Promise me you won't tell him?"

"Cameron, I . . ."

"Please promise me. I know I don't have the right to ask you, especially after everything that's happened but I'm going to anyway. Please Wilson?"

Wilson's fingers reflexively brushed against the movement he felt within her. He was drowning in a sea of emotions; apprehension and overwhelm and anger and exhaustion.

But paramount was love. His best friend who he loved like a brother had been returned from the dead, returned to him for safekeeping. And his need to protect House extended to House's unborn child. How could he share news that may well endanger House's life? How could he risk the possibility that House's child would grow up without a father?

Wilson was silent. He focused his attention on his hand and the feel of the child kicking against his mother's belly. This was truly House's child, already making a fuss, throwing a fit over being ignored by his mother in favor of the father.

Without removing his hand, Wilson whispered, "I promise. For now. For House's sake. And for yours. And for . . ."

"His. I'm having a little boy."

"For his sake too then." Wilson's eyes momentarily flicked up to her face again before returning to her abdomen.

"But if things change, I WILL tell him. He needs to know Cameron. I'll give you a chance to do what's right, to tell him yourself. But if the circumstances change . . ."

"I understand," she said soberly. "And Wilson? Thank you."

He nodded.

"I still love him you know?" The tears were sliding easily down her rounded cheeks. "I never stopped."

"I know," Wilson said. "God help me. I know."

And he was just beginning to understand what that meant.


	79. Chapter 79

**79 – "But still the warmth flows through me and I sense you know me well. It's only common sense there are no accidents around here. I am willing – lay your hands on me. I am ready – lay your hands on me. I believe – lay your hands on me. Over me." – "Lay Your Hands on Me" – Peter Gabriel**

As chief administrator for PPTH, Lisa Cuddy felt a great deal of responsibility. Certainly, her career had always been a source of satisfaction to her but it was times like these that she really felt the full burden of weight she carried with her job.

Now it was up to her. Her hospital was charged with keeping House alive and since she was, in turn, giving the orders at Princeton Plainsboro, his very life was in her hands. It was imperative that Gregory House, the incomparable diagnostician, be returned to the job for which he was universally renowned, saving lives. Otherwise, more lives would be lost for lack of his peculiar insights and expertise.

The fact that she'd also come to realize how much she was still in love with House during the course of the last 72-plus hours was a factor in her decision making that could not be ignored either. From the ecstasy of the passion they'd shared to the anguish of his betrayal and their brief breakup, from witnessing his argument and then speaking with his mother herself, to the trip with Wilson to the morgue and experiencing the overwhelming grief at the belief that she had lost him forever, Cuddy had become keenly aware of her innate, irrefutable bond with her hospital's brightest star. Their connection went beyond words, beyond the obvious pleasure of their physical compatibility.

For Lisa Cuddy, who had been raised in a Jewish home but who had long since become agnostic if not atheistic in practice, the feelings and emotions that were all wrapped up in the person who was Gregory House were hard to separate or brand. Yet, she conceded to the knowledge that she shared with House a link that was spiritual in nature.

Cuddy was well aware of all the ways a relationship with House, an ex-addict, could implode. But her mind could focus on little else than of being with him.

It was as if House was a mystic and she, his high priestess, willingly sacrificed her reasoned judgment on the altar of her love for him.

She hadn't told anybody about her feelings, not even the trusted Wilson, and she wasn't sure that she should anyway. These emotions were entirely new to her experience in their level of depth and complexity and they continued to roil inside of her making it difficult to concentrate on her work.

House's return to PPTH, rather than creating a source of comfort, had actually increased her level of anxiety. Now SHE was responsible for his life and her plans for his recovery could mean the difference between healing and hope or for allowing his precious life to slip through her fingers.

And Cuddy was not going to let that happen.

First, she completed the final preparations for getting House installed in a private room in Princeton Plainsboro's IC unit. Whether for better or worse, her hospital's greatest asset was now, perhaps, its most important patient.

The next step was to take an attentive approach to his overall care. Since House's chart from Princeton General outlined that he had already coded three times in the last 36 hours, Cuddy insisted upon having him monitored round the clock. She was taking no chances.

For House's comfort and her own peace of mind as well, Cuddy chose the members of his own team to take shifts in his room, keeping a constant vigil over their boss. Since they currently had no case, the team could continue their watch over House with Cuddy and Wilson relieving them for short periods of time when either Wilson's patient load or her hospital's business did not interfere.

This decision also accomplished two other goals. One was that her nursing staff received the benefit of less interaction with the notoriously cantankerous doctor House.

The second thing this strategy achieved was that only House's inner circle knew the specifics of his injuries. And even they were not told how his more serious wounds were inflicted.

The general cover story was that House had suffered a bad motorcycle accident which the majority of the hospital's staff found, judging from House's usual reckless behavior, entirely plausible.

So for the meantime, she had been able to keep a close eye on House without raising too many questions or eliciting unnecessary gossip from the general populace at Princeton Plainsboro. Only she and Wilson knew all the particulars although she suspected that Brenda also knew much more than she was letting on.

As long as her own more intertwined and unfathomable relationship with House remained secret, Cuddy would be as inconvenienced as little as possible. And that suited her just fine.

As House's recognized second-in-command, Eric Foreman drew first watch. Though he lodged his displeasure over being included in the House-care lineup, he used the time to catch up on his reading and on editing a paper he was writing in the hopes of getting published. House remained asleep for his watch, in part from sheer exhaustion but mostly from sedation.

Taub's watch followed Foreman's and he too found other interests to occupy his time mostly through phoning his wife or trying to see down the blouse of the new voluptuous nurse in ICU.

By the time Chase came in to relieve Taub, House had grown restless. He had begun to murmur in his sleep causing Chase to order more meds to counteract the pain his boss was obviously experiencing.

Thirteen was next in the rotation and she was well aware that Cuddy's scheduling went beyond the ordinary limits of hospital administrator protecting her chief diagnostician. Perhaps because one woman could recognize the transparency of another's actions, Thirteen had more than an inkling that Cuddy had a strong emotional attachment to House which all of her planning clearly revealed.

By the time Thirteen walked into House's room to relieve Chase, House had become quiet once more. Chase apprised her of the situation and offered to stay with her for awhile if she so desired.

Thirteen shook her head.

"No," she said. "You look beat. You go grab some sleep. I'll be fine here on my own."

"Well, not completely on your own. You've still got the bear over there in hibernation." As he spoke, he gestured over to the bed and the sleeping House. "And he tends to growl a bit if woken too early."

Thirteen smiled. "I think I can handle it," she said. "Most bears'll calm right down if you feed them honey as soon as they wake up. I don't think I'll have a problem."

Chase raised his eyebrows. "What kind of honey are we talking about?"

Thirteen's expression became inscrutable. "Just don't worry about him. Or me. We'll be fine. You go get some sleep."

"Okay if I check back in a few hours?"

Thirteen realized that Chase's reticence to leave was based more on his concern for House as his surrogate father than on any feelings he had for her. After everything that had, and had been rumored to have happened between Chase, Cameron and House, Thirteen was moved by Chase's unbroken loyalty to their currently incapacitated boss.

"If there's any change in his condition, I'll page you."

Chase nodded his head. "Thanks, I'd appreciate it."

"Now, go get some sleep!"

"Yes ma'am!" Chase saluted her while giving her a disarming grin. He turned and left the room.

Almost as soon as Chase left, House began mumbling in his sleep. Thirteen slid her chair closer to the side of the bed to be near in case he needed anything. It also helped her to hear what he was saying.

"No . . . don't. Not again. Not again."

Thirteen recognized something she'd never heard in her boss's voice before; an element of fear.

"Shhhhhh," she soothed. "It's okay."

"Don't do it again."

"I won't," she answered.

"_He_ will. Stop him. Please, don't let him hurt me again." House was becoming more agitated.

Thirteen reached out and took hold of his shoulder, gently shaking him.

"House, wake up. C'mon, wake up."

House's eyes flew open as he tried to twist away from her grasp.

"Stop it! Don't!"

"It's me House! It's only me!"

House's gaze went to her face but it still took a few moments for him to seem to recognize her.

"It's okay," Thirteen said, gently placing her hand on his shoulder again and stroking him. "You were having a nightmare."

"No," House said.

"What?"

House closed his eyes. Thirteen felt his body shudder slightly as if from cold. She pulled the blankets over him as he said almost inaudibly, "Not a dream. A memory."

The fear and pain she'd heard in his voice just moments before was still palpable. And now he'd just admitted something terrible had happened in his past. Instead of deflecting, lying or sarcasm, House had been honest. He'd opened himself up and made himself vulnerable to her.

"Sleep House," she said with all the sympathy she could muster. "It's okay. I won't let anything happen to you."

He sighed heavily and began to drift off again. But just as he closed his eyes, he said, "Afraid."

Thirteen felt her heart seize up in her chest. Or perhaps it only melted with the flood of compassion she felt for House's sudden, naked honesty.

"Of what?" she asked, "Death?"

House opened his eyes again. He knew to whom he was speaking, to a young woman with a death sentence, to Thirteen who had, at best, another 10 to 15 years of life.

He looked deeply into her eyes as he said, "Pain." He closed his eyes, the fear of admitting his truth overtaking him once more.

Thirteen placed her hand over his. "I know. We'll take care of you. Try not to think . . ."

"And . . ."

"And what?" Thirteen leaned closer to him. "You're afraid of something else?"

"Yes."

She clasped his hand tighter. "Of what House?"

He was quiet for so long that she began to think he had finally fallen asleep.

"Of dying . . . alone."

It was if a sudden gale force wind blew through her chest, ripping open her heart. In that moment of clarity she understood him, saw him for the mortal, wrecked soul that he was.

And she understood why Cameron and now Cuddy loved him. For in that moment, with the past echoing and the limited future beckoning, she loved him too.

This was the man who had been able to reach into and halt her self-destruction, because he knew what it was to try and destroy himself in the fatal grip of his own self hatred. This was the man who had made her see her limits, in life, in thinking, because they had reflected his own.

And this was the person reaching out to touch her heart with the ache and fear and loneliness of his own.

"I know," she said, tears starting in her eyes. "Me too," she whispered.

And then without thinking, she leaned forward and kissed him. She started to kiss him on the cheek but at the last moment, she moved to touch his soft lips with her own.

House opened his eyes as she rose up and away from him. He felt a single tear drop onto his cheek as he looked at her.

"I won't let you die alone House. If I'm still . . . If I'm here, you won't die alone. I promise."

She was no longer looking at him, trying vainly to hide the tears that had begun silently rolling down her face. She felt his other hand move over her own which still clasped his, cradling her hand with both of his own. She looked back at him, his azure gaze looking deeply into her heart, into her soul.

"I promise too," he said.

She nodded. Their pact was set. It was stronger than any written contract for they had promised each other in their emptiness and fear. Nothing truer could exist between them.

Whoever died first, the other would be there at their side, to do what was necessary and to keep the other from dying alone.

"Sleep now House," Thirteen said as she lovingly stroked his forehead. "Just sleep."

House obediently closed his eyes and drifted away, still clutching Thirteen's small hand with both of his own, holding onto her and the promise they had just made to one another.

_A/N: This scene between House and 13 echoes the already established relationship between these two characters (see chapter 56). Also, as it was written weeks ago and I am completely spoiler free, any similarity between what has happened on the show (particularly the April 11th episode) and my story is totally coincidental . . . and kinda cool really._


	80. Chapter 80

A/N: Good grief! I can't believe it has been this long since I updated this story!

For anyone still reading, we left off with House, after having been run off the road and stabbed by Lucas, (after some very telling visions) getting transferred to PPTH from Princeton General when Cuddy and Wilson finally found their friend. Wilson found out that House had been under Cameron's care while at PG and when he went to confront her, discovered that she is pregnant with House's baby. She gets him to promise not to tell anyone before he leaves. While on Cuddy's imposed "House watch," Thirteen and House bond more closely as they promise each other to be there for one another in their final moments when the time comes.

That's where everything stands at the moment. Hope there's someone still out there who's interested in reading this story after it has taken a very backburner to my other two stories "Rebound" and "Phoenix Rising" which both take place this season immediately after "Bombshells."

Also please remember that THIS story has not had anything to do with the events of season 7. "Parallel Lines" refers to some of the canon of seasons 1-6 only.

Thanks for reading and especially reviewing.

**80 – When I get near you, the games begin to drag me down . . . But if I seem to act unkind, it's only me, it's not my mind that is confusing things." – "I Want to Tell You" – The Beatles**

Like mythic Atlas, Wilson felt the burden of his responsibilities pressing down upon him, encumbering his breathing and slumping his shoulders forward under the burden of their crushing weight.

While he may have not been bearing the world, Wilson was desperately trying to accomplish two dichotomous objectives; remain a supportive friend to both Cuddy and House during House's convalescence and at the same time, uphold the promise he'd made nearly two weeks ago to Cameron.

It was a perilous tightrope he'd been walking since House's transfer to PPTH from Princeton General. He knew his propensity for divulging secrets particularly to his best friend was his biggest hurdle in keeping his promise and that in order to accomplish the one task he might well have to curtail the other.

He finally decided that the only way to refrain from revealing Cameron's pregnancy with House's child was to shun the company of his two best friends almost entirely.

This had not proved an easy thing to do.

For one thing, he and Cuddy's time together discussing House, searching for him and significantly, that horrible day they went to the morgue to identify House's body only to find, both to their relief and Cuddy's distress, that it was Lucas Douglas laid out on the slab instead of House, had brought them as close as two friends could be. They had been each other's lifeline, each other's support system, standing strong when the other one faltered. Wilson was closer now with Cuddy than he had ever been with any of his three ex-wives and certainly most of his girlfriends.

For another, as House's best friend, Wilson's physical presence at House's side was a necessity to his well-being and continued speedy recovery.

At this point in time, the three friends were closer than they had ever been. Their mutual pain and suffering and abiding affection had brought them all together and bound them inextricably with each other. They had been through so much together Wilson simply could not imagine anything ever coming between their friendship again.

Except perhaps a secret.

For a secret, like a lie, is conveyed each time it is withheld from the ones it effects most. And the guilt Wilson bore in order to protect Cameron's secret ate away at his conscience every time he spoke to Cuddy, every time he visited House as he recuperated.

So Wilson decided that once again, a problem delayed was a problem denied. But this decision meant he would pay a hefty price by being forced to steer clear of the company of his two best friends.

Avoiding Cuddy was extremely problematic. As chief administrator, she was his immediate boss, owing to his position as head of the oncology department. He was required to keep her abreast, through regular meetings, paperwork and emails, of what was happening under his watch.

Wilson and Cuddy also served together on several of the PPTH boards, including the transplant committee which met at least twice a week in order to match donors and recipients.

Wilson had been deliberately arriving late to all of his meetings where Cuddy would be in attendance. As soon as the meeting concluded, he would dash off again, using the excuse of a grueling work schedule and the needs of his patients.

It hurt him every time he noticed the wounded look in Cuddy's eyes when he brushed her off in this fashion. After the first few days of his new behavior, Wilson realized that Cuddy instinctively knew he was avoiding her.

To her credit however, she gave him his space even though it seemed that he had forgone the deeper ties of friendship they had so recently forged.

House was another matter entirely. Loyalty and unerring sense of duty meant that Wilson would be unable to shun House as he recuperated.

So Wilson took to visiting him only when House was asleep, had been sedated or was otherwise out of it due to pain medications and other drugs. Wilson would let House know he had been there by leaving handwritten notes, gifts of food such as reubens and ice cream sandwiches or music, bringing House his ipod so that he could listen to his favorite blues musicians.

But he knew that it was only a matter of time before he dropped the balls in this juggling act he was performing with his two friends. Unless Cameron herself came forward soon, at some point one or the other or both of them would call him on his actions and uncover the secret. And then, quite possibly, all hell would break loose. But for now, Wilson was left to wonder when and how the axe would fall and indeed, who would wield it.

He should have known better. Of course it would be House.

House was pretending to be asleep again. He began the habit not long into his imposed incarceration in PPTH's ICU and had kept it up once he was moved into his own room on another floor.

Cuddy, in her infinite wisdom, had scheduled his team to look after him while he was still in the ICU. Once removed from there, Cuddy had encouraged Foreman, Chase, Taub and Thirteen to collect cases that might fully engage House's considerable skills in diagnostic deduction.

The team had obviously taken Cuddy's directions to heart for when they found a suitable patient, they kept House busy running DDXs all hours of the day and night. Since he could not escape from his bed, he was constantly available.

While Cuddy's instructions were made with the intent of keeping House's mind off his pain and thereby hastening his recovery, the additional traffic in and out of his room along with the added workload was driving him nuts.

Thus, his pretence at sleep or even better, faking being under the effects of heavy sedation had for House, several advantages. For one thing, his charade kept him from having to talk to his team.

For another, it spared him from meaningless conversations with the nurses.

If they weren't filling the space while performing their duties with dull and incessant chatter, they were asking idiotic questions like, "How are we today doctor House?" This inane and oft-repeated query was made even more intolerable, to House's way of thinking, by the use of the patronizing, kingly "we."

House was well aware of the wisdom of suppressing his natural response, "I've been in a motorcycle accident and stabbed by a psychopath; how do you think I feel you moron?" in favor of continuing to receive untainted food and the correct pain medications. In the end, the only way he found to keep from responding in his usual, sarcastic manner was to feign sleep.

And this initial action, merely to avoid aggravation, had other benefits as well. House found that if the nurses thought he was asleep, they tended to neglect censoring themselves in his presence, carrying on their conversations as usual while they moved about his room.

In this manner, House found out all the soap opera-esque details concerning Taub's most recent indiscretions with a couple of the nurses and what the staff REALLY thought about Chase (good surgeon, cute with a great accent), Foreman (talented, arrogant House Jr.) and Thirteen (frustratingly mysterious). It was nearly as good as watching his own soap opera "Prescription Passion."

House even became privy to the fact that the staff occasionally gossiped about him. He discovered that the majority of the personnel at PPTH considered him a sort of cross between Genghis Khan and Einstein.

Being thought of as a barbaric genius certainly had its recompense. This meant that in the microcosm of Princeton Plainsboro, he was universally feared, yet respected.

And quite to his surprise, House found out that more than a few of the female staff reluctantly admitted to finding him undeniably attractive at the same time as they dreaded his verbal eviscerations. Apparently there was something to the whole motorcycle riding, devil-may-care, bad boy mystique that was working in his favor on that subject.

It was difficult to keep the smirk off his face when two of his regular nurses debated the merits of his best features; his tall, lean body, his brilliant mind, his beautiful eyes. Then there was a lot of giggling but less talk after his sponge bath nurse laid all other arguments to rest by putting in her two cents.

This was exactly the kind of subterfuge House liked. But there was much more at stake in perfecting his act than catching up on the latest hospital gossip.

For even all this additional information paled in comparison to the trap he hoped to set to ensnare his biggest quarry, Dr. James Wilson.

House's suspicions had initially been aroused by Wilson's apparent casual attitude with which he was treating both House's care and him personally. Wilson was acting completely out of character in his conscious avoidance of his best friend. And while he thought he was being subtly sneaky, the fact that he assumed House would fall for such an obvious ploy both incensed and intrigued House.

For House knew that Wilson's sense of duty would never allow him to act this way when his best friend really needed him. And yet, against all reason and obligations that's exactly what Wilson had been doing. In Wilson's overall, supportive and enabling behavior pattern, it was an anomaly. And House could not pass up the chance to investigate an anomaly.

His curiosity had been piqued and like a dog with a bone, he was not about to let it go. House merely needed to wait. Wilson would come to him.

After nearly two weeks of his game, Wilson had started to get careless. He was beginning to arrive at regular intervals, assuming House had been medicated and was unconscious. House knew that Wilson's over confidence would be his undoing. He would spring his trap and finally get some answers to the questions that had come to mind since his return.

It was only a matter of time and at the moment, Greg House had nothing but time.


	81. Chapter 81

**81 – "****But when I want sincerity tell me where else can I turn? Because you're the one I depend upon. Honesty is such a lonely word. Everyone is so untrue. Honesty is hardly ever heard and mostly what I need from you." – "Honesty" – Billy Joel**

Wilson stood in the hallway outside House's darkened room. He was holding a dry reuben sandwich, no pickles, and a large chocolate shake.

He had been stopping in to check up on House this same time for the past few days. This was an opportune time as House was always under sedation but would come out of it within an hour or so, waking up, Wilson knew well from past experience, antagonistic and hungry.

Wilson walked to the room, stopping to listen at the doorway. Even from 10 feet away, he could hear House's steady, slumbered breathing.

He smiled with satisfaction as he tip-toed into the room and over to House's bed. He placed the food on a tray and quietly wheeled the table over to House's side. His friend would see his meal as soon as he woke up and would have easy access to it.

As he moved closer, Wilson was able to get a better look at House. Though the lighting was dim, he could still make out the bruising on House's arms and neck from his accident and the additional injuries caused by House's drug-induced panic attack in Princeton General's ICU. The colors had morphed from a deep purple, to magenta with greens and yellows on the edges.

Guilt and sadness washed over him as he continued to watch his sleeping friend. He missed House. He missed him so much. Their conversations, giving him advice that he knew House would ignore, the odd ways House found to cheer him up just as he had done when they'd first met at that conference in New Orleans.

Wilson had just been served with divorce papers from Sam, his first wife. House noticed the package from the law firm and set about pulling some crazy stunts. After Wilson got involved in a bar fight and had broken a very expensive, antique mirror, Gregory House bailed his new acquaintance out of jail. They had been friends ever since.

They'd had a falling out when Amber died even though Wilson recognized that House was not directly responsible for the events that caused her death. But House's actions did place within Wilson a deep-seated fear; that House would someday be the means to bring about his own end and quite possibly, take those closest to him down with him.

House eventually found a way to wheedle himself back into Wilson's good graces. He needed Wilson to drive him to his father's funeral. But it was more than that. House simply needed Wilson. And Wilson, more than anything else, needed to be needed.

By the next year, when House spiraled down into hallucinations and madness, Wilson was able to withstand the emotional onslaught. House's needs pushed him to survive, not only for himself, but so that he could grasp hold of House and help pull him back from the edge of the abyss as well.

Wilson knew that somehow, House had been responsible for instilling within him the strength to survive. And for that, he would always be grateful.

For after everything that had happened between them, it seemed their quirky alliance worked when all else fell away. Wilson did not believe in fate and yet it was like they had always meant to be friends, could never be anything else but brothers. They would get angry with each other, hurt each other, argue and fight but in the end, always remain steadfastly loyal, forever linked, friends to the last.

House gave Wilson the highest praise possible, saying he was "never boring." But for Wilson, it was always House that made things more interesting. He was so much larger than life he affected a gravitational pull on everything and everyone around him, sweeping them all into a huge, fascinating, irreverent, uproarious jambalaya of living that once experienced, could never be forsaken. Wilson was forever beholden to House for his brutal honesty, his genius, his medical support and his off-beat championing of Wilson as a human being, even when he probably didn't deserve it.

With tears in his eyes, he reached out his hand to gently clasp House's arm, to give his best friend substance, to make sure that he was really here at Princeton Plainsboro, amongst friends, safe once more and able at last to heal from his injuries, both physical and emotional. Just as his fingertips touched the relatively cool flesh on House's less-bruised upper arm, House's hand whipped round and grabbed Wilson, locking him in place with a ferociously strong grip.

"Gah! What the hell? House! You scared the crap out of me!"

House's eyes flew open and he looked at Wilson with a steady, obviously un-sedated deep blue gaze.

"Then maybe you should've been content to let sleeping dogs lie."

"You're supposed to be under sedation!"

"Oh Wilson. Haven't I ever shown you the fine art of how to cheek a pill?"

Wilson began to struggle. He tried unsuccessfully to extricate his hand. But like a pit bull, House held on tight, anticipating his every tug and jerk.

"Lemme go House! Dammit! I've got to get back to my patients!"

"That's a nice story. Would you like a little cheese to go with that whine? Your cancer kids'll have to wait. Why have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't been avoiding you. I've . . ."

"Wilson, don't insult my intelligence. I've been here for nearly two weeks and the only time I've talked to you was right after my admittance. Of course, there were so many drugs in my system, I can't remember what was said. My conversation with Elvis though, I remember like it was yesterday. Maybe because it was."

Wilson stopped struggling and dropped his hand. He was worried about injuring House's arm by continuing to thrash about. He sighed heavily before he spoke.

"All right, all right. I have been avoiding you. But you needed your rest. You . . ."

House made a buzzing noise. "I'm sorry Jimmy but that answer has gotten you eliminated from the first round. Would you like to try for Double Jeopardy where the scores can really go up?"

"No I would not like to . . . !" Wilson paused trying to control his anger. "Not everything is about you House! I know that's hard for you and your enormous ego to believe!"

A slight smile crossed House's face. But it did not reach his eyes. They continued to look sad.

"Wilson," House said quietly, "You and I both know that once I was brought in here, wild horses wouldn't have been able to keep you away. It's such an ingrained part of your nature to demonstrate self-sacrifice that if you were too busy during the day, you would have given up sleep to make sure I was alright. Hell, you gave up a chunk of your liver to that self-important jerk Tucker even though you didn't do anything wrong." House paused, looking intently at his friend. "You'd never abandon a stranger when they need you, much less a friend. So what gives?"

House's speech had a sobering effect on Wilson. He'd hurt House, actually wounded him by avoiding his company even though House himself would probably never admit it. Perhaps his physical injuries were even now, secondary to his emotional suffering; the torment of what had happened between he and Cuddy, the highs and the terrible lows in such a short space of time, his argument with his mother and maybe most profoundly, the notion of having trusted and been friends with Lucas Douglas who had nearly killed him and who had also attacked the woman he loved.

Wilson hadn't considered it at all. But maybe this was House's way of letting him know that he could take no more.

"I promised . . ." Wilson started before abruptly stopping again.

"Who did you promise? What did you promise?"

How could he break his word to Cameron? How could he add one more huge straw to the camel's back that was House's emotions?

Wilson shook his head. His eyes moved from House's face to the tiled floor.

"I can't House. I just can't. It's not right for you. Not right for her."

"Who her? Cuddy?"

"Crap!"

"Wilson, tell me. What are you and Cuddy keeping from me?"

Wilson's eyes flew back to House's face. House thought his two best friends were in collusion together against him. And the pain of that betrayal, more than all his physical ailments, was eating him alive.

"No, not Cuddy. It's . . . it's . . . Cameron."

"Cameron?" House seemed genuinely shocked. He had been leaning slightly forward in the bed, inclining himself toward Wilson as if his closer proximity could make Wilson confess what he knew. But with Wilson's admission, House sunk back onto the bed. Wilson thought he looked weaker, paler.

"House, you should get some rest."

"No, no. It's just that . . ." House stopped looking at Wilson. He began to stare absently out into the darkened room, his eyes taking on a faraway expression.

"I thought I dreamed it, thought I dreamed her," he said. "There was so much . . . I don't remember who I saw, who I spoke to, what was real and what was my own drug-induced or near-death, oxygen-deprived brain's hallucinations."

"Crap!"

House looked back at Wilson with one eyebrow raised. "You said that before. Digestion or elimination problems?"

"Please House. I don't want to talk about this now. Just leave it alone."

House lavished Wilson with another sad smile. "Do you not know me at all Wilson? When was the last time I ever just left anything alone?"

House was right as usual. When Wilson first started dating Amber, House dogged his every move until he found out who the new woman in his life was. During the brief interruption of their friendship, House hired a private detective, Lucas Douglas to investigate him.

Unfortunately for House, he was now paying for his misplaced curiosity for those past events. Wilson nodded his head, silently answering the questions that had arisen in his own mind. It seemed House would be forever doomed to reap the bitter harvest of his own misguided, unreasoned emotional reactions.

Wilson dropped his gaze, his head bowed low in an obvious show of defeat. House's grip slackened as Wilson reclaimed his hand.

But he did not leave. Instead, he pulled a chair closer to his best friend's bedside and sat down.

"I brought you a reuben and a chocolate shake," Wilson said, nodding to the tray next to House. "You should eat a little, try and keep up your strength."

House reached over and unwrapped the cold sandwich. Raising it to his lips, he took a bite while, like an anxious mother hen, Wilson nodded his head in approval. Wilson then opened the straw, slid it in the cup and handed that over to House as well.

After several quiet minutes of House eating and drinking, he finally put both items back on the tray and fixed Wilson with his unblinking stare.

"Now what do you need to tell me about Cameron?"


	82. Chapter 82

**82 – "It's no good living without you. I can't stop thinking about you." – "Can't Stop Thinking About You" – George Harrison**

Allison Cameron had intended to keep working during her pregnancy right up to her due date. While that was still the basic plan, her obstetrician, Dr. Kapoor, had become much more adamant that Allison slow down some, especially after she came close to losing the baby.

This nearly tragic incident accomplished what all of Dr. Kapoor's relentless pressuring had not. For it was only Cameron's love for the child growing inside her that could possibly convince her to take a break from the vocation to which she had dedicated her life.

Subsequently, in the two weeks since her personal catastrophe had been averted, Cameron drastically reduced her hours at Princeton General.

It did not necessarily follow however that she used the extra time for merely relaxing and putting her sometimes swollen feet up on the coffee table. Instead, Cameron's nesting instinct had taken hold of her consciousness, compelling her to move forward full throttle in her efforts to redecorate the guest room and turn it into a nursery.

But this, to her, did not feel like work at all. Cameron seemed to come into her own, taking a profound delight in painting, furnishing and organizing the nursery. She styled the room in shades of blue, rejecting the traditional pastel hue usually reserved for baby boys and choosing instead much bolder and richer tones.

Her greatest wish, aside from having a healthy baby, was that her son would, in both looks and intellect take after his father. With that scheme in the forefront of her mind, Cameron undertook her labors with the intention of harmonizing the palette of the nursery with the anticipated color of her son's eyes.

She was meticulous in this quest and returned several times to the local hardware store in order to obtain paint that would dry in the precise hue. At long last, the fifth version she rolled onto the walls dried and she removed the strips of masking tape that were used to protect the doorframe.

It was perfect. The blue on the walls exactly matched the color of _his_ eyes, her baby's father, House's eyes.

House. Hardly a moment of her day went by without a thought spared for him.

In the first weeks after she'd left Princeton, Cameron had foolishly believed that escape would be the best course of action for her, to protect her heart. She had therefore, busied herself in moving to a new place, finding a new home and job and opening herself up to the idea of dating again.

As a beautiful and successful woman, Allison had no trouble meeting and even dating available men. Her problems arose when relationships became more serious, specifically when she went to bed with someone.

No one struck her to the center of her heart as House had done. No matter how many times she tried and no matter who she chose to become intimate with, she could not feel the same way House had made her feel. The way he touched her, the way he moved inside her, his passion, his honesty, Cameron realized that no one else even came close.

House had not only moved her physically, he'd touched her heart, his soul had melded with her own. She had for the first time in her life, felt totally loved and totally _in_ love. And no amount of distance or time could change that for her.

Then the day came when she realized she was pregnant with his child. She'd entirely forgotten her cycle in her haste and bustle of running away from him.

Cameron had gone to visit her family for the Thanksgiving holiday. Her brother made an offhand remark about some extra weight she'd gained and the roundness of her cheeks. That was when she stopped to think how long it had been since her last period.

Unlike his father, the baby had caused her hardly any trouble at all or at least nothing that could not be explained away by the stresses of making a new life for herself. But suddenly the dizzy spells, the episodes of hunger and stomach upset, the little signs and symptoms, all seemed to fall into place.

Coming home from the family holiday, she thought about buying a home pregnancy test but opted to go into work and give herself a blood test. When the results came through, she stared at them for a long, long time.

She just didn't want to believe it. Becoming mother to House's child would forever bind her to him and that was the last thing she wanted.

Or was it? If she truly wanted to be forever free from House, she could easily abort the pregnancy. Her hand had automatically flown to her abdomen in an instinctive, shielding gesture when that thought had crossed her mind.

No. She could never abort her child; for it was hers after all, no matter if she hated its father.

But the truth of the matter was, that even though she had said some harsh words to House, even though he'd hurt her more devastatingly than he'd ever done before, even with all of that, she did not hate him, could never find it in her heart to hate him.

After all that had happened between them, she found that she still loved him, in fact would always love him. And she eventually arrived at the sad conclusion that he was the only man she could ever love.

Cameron knew what she had to do. The further away from House she was, the more like a half-life she seemed to be living. She had no idea of whether she would or could tell him about his son, about the life they had created together. But she intuitively knew that she could no longer live without being near him.

So she returned to Princeton. She eased into a new life there; rented a new apartment, got a new job at a different hospital and bided her time.

There was no rush to get back in contact with House. Cameron didn't know exactly what she would say to him anyway.

And then, dramatically, fate had intervened. House had found her. No, they had found each other. He needed her again and without hesitation, she'd answered his call. To the exclusion of all else, even the welfare of her unborn child, she had ministered to him, night and day.

And she had been in her glory.

She knew she'd been the one to save his life, to reach out across the dark field and call him back, to save the one person in all the world whose life was more precious to her than her own, even more precious than the life growing inside her womb.

Cameron had fought hard for House, had even fought against him, to keep him there, with her, to keep him safe. And after it was over, after his life had been saved, after he was sleeping soundly in the security of her care, it was then that she had her epiphany. For it was then that she realized that by choosing House, by choosing to have him in her life, by loving him, she would always have to fight.

Whether against him or against her own better judgment, she would always have to stand strong.

All of these things impressed themselves upon her mind in the two weeks since she'd extracted her promise from James Wilson. Two weeks and she'd heard nothing from that front. Neither had she contacted him.

She knew time was running out like sand in an hourglass. As soon as House was more lucid he would know that his best friend was keeping something from him and would not stop until he'd found out what it was.

And Wilson would fold. He would have to. He had never been a good secret keeper to begin with but certainly with regards to House, there was nothing he could hide from his best friend's scrupulous eye and rigorous badgering.

It was only a matter of time and the only choice Cameron had was whether to let Wilson spill the beans or tell House herself before that occurred.

As if on cue, Cameron's cell phone started buzzing. She knew who it was before she looked at the return number, before she answered the call.

"Wilson?" she said, her voice much steadier than the trembling feeling in her stomach.

"Cameron . . . we need to talk."

"What have you told him?"

"How did you . . . ?"

"Wilson," she said more loudly into the phone, "What have you told him? Everything?"

"No. But I did tell him that YOU had something to tell him. You have to come. You have to talk to him."

Cameron let out a breath that she didn't even know she was holding. "When?"

The other end of the line was silent for some time. Wilson was obviously surprised he hadn't had to try and convince her.

"The sooner the better. He's agitated and he needs to focus completely on getting well again. He can't do that while he has this hanging over him."

"Tonight?"

Wilson paused once more, obviously measuring his options.

"I mean, won't it be easier without . . . without Cuddy there?" Cameron added.

Wilson exhaled into the phone. "Yes it will. Are you okay with that though?"

"I guess I have to be, don't I? What time?"

"I'd say plan on being here around 6:30. Do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, I'm okay to drive."

"Then be in the parking lot around 6:30 and I'll call you on your cell when . . ." Wilson's voice faded out.

"When the coast is clear?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Cameron said, already trying to rally her courage for the evening's events. "And Wilson? Thank you. Thank you for giving me the chance to . . ."

"Don't thank me yet," Wilson warned. "I'm not exactly sure about how this is all going to fall out."

"That's not your problem," Cameron said. "I just wanted to thank you for keeping my secret. I know this couldn't have been easy for you."

The phone was quiet for so long that Cameron began to think he'd already hung up. And then she heard the familiar drawn out sigh.

"You're welcome. I'll see you tonight."

"'kay," Cameron said as she ended the call.

Yes, Cameron had learned her lesson. If she wanted House in her life she would have to fight for him, fight what everyone else might say, fight his and her own fears and now, the true realization began to sink in that she might very well have to fight Lisa Cuddy.

Cuddy, the woman who House, in his pain and despair had called to. But when House spoke Cuddy's name, he didn't have all the facts. After tonight, he would. And then Cameron would see whom House would choose.

She was ready. Ready to fight for herself, for her child. She was ready to fight for House's love.

Because he was worth it.


	83. Chapter 83

**83 – "There's something happening here. What it is ain't exactly clear." – "Something's Happening Here" – Buffalo Springfield**

Something was going on, that much was obvious. For all her concerns both personal and professional, Lisa Cuddy could not have missed the changes in James Wilson's behavior over the last couple of weeks.

Once they'd located House and placed him under the auspices of their own care at PPTH, Wilson's manner had made a decided shift. He was furtive. He was apprehensive. And he had been painstakingly avoiding Cuddy at every turn.

Cuddy was justifiably incensed by Wilson's new invisible man persona. Having been drawn together over their mutual concern and torment during House's absence, she suddenly felt cast adrift by the one person who should have stood by her in solidarity and support throughout House's convalescence.

But even worse than finding herself abandoned by Wilson, Cuddy had been informed by her faithful nursing staff who was overseeing House's care that he had been steering clear of House as well.

This more than anything else made her feel utterly at wit's end with Wilson, her indignation raised solely on House's behalf of course. House would need his best friend's continuous, steady presence during the long, arduous hours of physical therapy that would be required for his recovery. Wilson's complete avoidance therefore, had the potential to upset House's physical recuperation like nothing else could. Not to mention the psychological damage it would most certainly inflict upon the current invalid.

At least that was what she kept telling herself.

The truth of the matter was that Cuddy could more easily reproach Wilson for the very same thing of which she herself was guilty; for thus far she had almost completely shunned House the entire two-plus weeks since he had been a patient in her hospital.

At first, she rationalized avoiding him with the excuse that House was still too physically and psychologically weak. Because of the morphene mistakenly administered to him at Princeton General, House had been forced to go through a mild detox once he had been rendered up to PPTH's care. In addition, the severity of his injuries both from the motorcycle accident and subsequent stabbing allowed Cuddy to keep her distance on the pretext that she wished to prevent further taxing House's shattered mind and body.

But as the days and then the weeks went by and House grew stronger her reasons for supposedly sparing him additional pain by steering clear of him grew weaker. Cuddy began to find herself internally scrambling for other motives to forestall a visit to House's bedside.

Fortunately for her, she didn't have to look far. It had always been obvious to even the most casual observer that her position as Dean of Medicine loomed larger than any of her personal commitments. And after all, the first few months of a new year were the busiest time for her as an administrator; budgets needed to be hammered out, fiscal responsibilities attended to, contracts had to be renewed, staff and schedules had to be determined.

The enormity of Lisa Cuddy's demanding role fell like a pall across her efficient yet overburdened shoulders. There was simply no way she would ever, could ever, shirk her responsibilities to her beloved Princeton Plainsboro.

Not even for the man she loved.

For the stark realization that she was in love with Gregory House, would perhaps always love him, had finally come over her after all that she'd experienced, all that she'd felt during his brief but harrowing disappearance.

Recent events however, were not the sole impetus for her feelings. Her desperate romantic attachment to House had grown over time apart from her conscious knowledge of it.

Cuddy's love for House had insinuated itself into the walls surrounding her heart like the tendrils of a flowering vine. But also like the vine there was, with the acknowledgment of its very existence, both blossoms and thorns to be found within its twisted brambles

Although she profoundly loved House, he also frightened her. His genius, his passion, his charisma, his strengths, his weaknesses, his madness all merged into the amalgamation that was the most incredible man and at the same time, the most terrifying obsession Lisa Cuddy had ever in her life experienced.

House was like his motorcycle thrilling in its speed, dangerous in its exposure.

Cuddy found herself wrestling with the primal magnetism that drew her and held her in his orbit. If she allowed her fears to repel her, her heart might well freeze in loneliness and detachment like a comet hurled into deep space. Yet if she got too close, she was afraid of being burned up by House's very nature which possessed all the dynamic furor of an expanding star.

But for now, her fear took precedence, strangling the love she held for him and leaving her empty, frightened and alone. She felt she had barely survived the ordeal of losing House. Not even Wilson knew how close she had skirted insanity or death.

She understood this in her heart of hearts, knew she couldn't possibly go through anything like that again. She simply could not survive the pain House couldn't help but inflict upon those closest to him.

She had been right last year. House had seen it, had repeated the words Cuddy had said to him. Now, in the late hours before sleep would come to her they whirled through her brain, unbidden and inescapable.

"_People who get close to you get hurt."_

Yes, Cuddy had allowed herself to get close to him, too close. House was a part of her now and his overwhelming misery had become her burden as well.

She had suffered through a rollercoaster of emotions with House in such a short space of time. She had gone to him, to comfort him over the potential loss of his mother. His simple honesty, his undisguised need beckoned to her and pulled her toward him. She covered him with her embrace, with her body as she fell into his arms. Her needs answered his and they fell together, kissing, touching, healing each other with their bodies and their souls.

Lovemaking with House had been euphoric, had seemed to answer all the questions that lay hidden in her heart.

But they couldn't stay in bed and in each other's arms forever. Cuddy had a daughter to care for, a hospital to run. House needed puzzles to solve and intricate games and manipulations to oversee. Once they opened the door to his bedroom, they opened the door to the outside world with all its wrongs and evils threatening to destroy the beauty of the private microcosm they had created together.

The blow had not been long in coming. It had been one of House's own manipulations that had shattered Cuddy's brief glimpse into a brighter future with him. It had brought about Lucas' physical attack, first upon her and then upon House himself.

Once she and Wilson found out House was alive and had gotten him through the medical danger, Cuddy realized that she still harbored anger over House's mishandling of her situation with Lucas, in fact still blaming him, if only just a little, for inciting Lucas' attempted rape the night she returned from House's apartment.

Or maybe she was simply seeking another avenue to vent her own frustration and guilt. For it was the guilt that Cuddy shouldered for nearly losing House before she'd had a chance to reconcile with him coupled with the fact that it was her own ex-lover's lethal attack that nearly killed House that had left her with a terribly savage hole in her heart and psyche.

House had been lost to her, had almost died. And dying changes everything.

But almost dying . . . that had changed everything for only a few days. Then she found herself back to her original mindset. Because even though she inherently knew she loved him, must always love him, she still found herself reluctant to make the changes she knew were necessary to allow him a genuine place in her life.

Yes Cuddy loved him. But she did not, could not, fully accept him.

Or was it simply that she could not accept the tumult House would spontaneously bring in feelings, desires and emotions to her well-ordered life?

Is this what a life with House promised? Soaring highs interspersed with catastrophic despair?

It was all too much. Her tremendous love and crushing resentment mingled together like intense heat fuses sand into glass. House, like a fury, had burned her heart, the same heart she'd spent years so carefully filling with the sand of her confining professional life.

Once he'd unwittingly blazed a trail to her heart, House irrevocably changed her. She was reborn into something completely new to her personal experience. She was now a woman hopelessly in love.

Her heart had forever been changed. No longer filled with sand, it was now filled with love . . . but also with fear. Her fragile heart shrank from House's searing heat in a last ditch effort to maintain what Cuddy now considered a safe distance.

And the longer she avoided House, the more insurmountable crossing the threshold to his room became.

While she was able to keep close tabs on his medical condition through her nursing staff, she had trespassed only a few times upon his privacy and those occasions had been when House was completely under sedation.

Cuddy kicked herself for being afraid, for being weak. At the hospital, she had a reputation as "the dragon lady" but in her personal life she was a miserable failure. She had allowed herself to become so paralyzed with fear that she was no longer sure she could even have a meaningful conversation with House.

She didn't know what to say to him. The right words simply would not come. When it came to making the necessary, to her mind, apologies and one-on-one quiet moments, she was at a loss. She didn't know if she should apologize or cajole or threaten. And even if she did, would any of it matter? Could anything she said to House make a difference? A real change?

Or was House right again, that "People don't change?"

Although Cuddy had come to the startling realization that she truly, deeply loved House, no matter how much she loved him, how were they ever to get past this? How would they ever rise above the culpability for their mistakes, their faults and differences? How on earth could they possibly make each other happy and exist together as a whole when they were two impossibly shattered and broken people?

So she stayed away.

At the same time, she continued to use Wilson's avoidance as a scapegoat for her own shortcomings, both real and imagined.

That was until two days ago.

Since then, Wilson and House had been as of old, entirely inseparable. The staff attending to House had, according to Cuddy's specific instructions, kept her updated on both House's condition and his visitors.

Wilson's one-eighty regarding his management of House and his best friend's care puzzled Cuddy exceedingly as it again raised her ire. For now, she no longer had anyone else upon whom to cast her aspersions. She became the last holdout, the only one who had not made peace with House.

And the longer she delayed speaking with him, the wider the gap between them grew.

So Cuddy made a decision. Whether still resentful or not, angry or forgiving and certainly more than a little terrified, she decided she could not put off facing House any longer. He was still weak but by surviving his ordeal he'd already proven himself stronger than anyone would have previously given him credit for, even herself. She decided she would no longer delay seeing him, talking with him and at least trying in some small way to heal the breach.

Yet just as she realized she needed to talk with House, it seemed that Wilson was constantly by his side. Several times during the day she'd planned to see House, Cuddy made it a point to steal a look into his room. She made herself as unobtrusive as possible so as not to spook or change the behavior patterns of her staff and especially, to avoid setting the gossip tongues to wagging.

Her curiosity was piqued. Every time she stopped by, she saw Wilson and House engaged in deep conversation.

Finally, near the end of the day, she could not stand the suspense any longer. She determined that this time, she would either speak to House directly or find out what he and Wilson were discussing. And knowing House, the subject could be anything from shoelaces to world domination.

As she came near the open doorway of House's room, she could hear the familiar voices of the two most important men in her life.

A shockwave went through her the first time she heard House speak. She had not heard his rich baritone in more than two weeks. Like electricity running through a high voltage cable, Cuddy felt her heart and body thrill, vibrating alone to his particular timbre.

Though she heard their voices, she could not at first make out any of the words. Taking off her shoes, she snuck just a bit closer. It was then that she caught at a single name.

Cameron.


	84. Chapter 84

**84 – "Paranoia strikes deep. Into your life it will creep. It starts when you're always afraid." – "Something's Happening Here" – Buffalo Springfield**

Cameron?

And then that fateful morning came back to her, crashing in upon her in all its exquisite and painful detail. Wilson got the call on his cell phone. House had been found, alive. And then Wilson had spoken the name, her name, the name of the woman Lisa Cuddy had tried for months to put out of her mind.

Cameron.

Cuddy didn't know how Cameron had become reconnected with House but she obviously had. And now somehow Wilson was directly involved with her as well.

Was this the reason Wilson had shunned her company? Had Wilson made the conscious decision to side with the one woman who had so long been in pursuit of Gregory House and during that same time period, been the object of Cuddy's own most flagrant jealousy in that respect?

She racked her brain for more details, particulars of the events of two weeks ago that she had so conveniently shunted to the attic of her mind and thus forgotten. Princeton General's ER doctor had given the head of ICU, Dickerson was it? verbal instructions that House should under no circumstances be given opiate-based drugs.

With all the adrenaline from the emotional turmoil at the time, Cuddy hadn't questioned that event any further. But now, in hindsight, she saw that only someone who'd known House was a former opiate addict would give such an order.

How blind had she been? No matter how confused or frightened, how could she have omitted such glaring, significant evidence of Cameron's homecoming?

Cuddy held her breath as she moved a step closer. She remained on the other side of the glass, hidden behind the closed blinds of the room.

"Around 6:30 tonight. I said I'd call her on her cell as soon as Cuddy leaves for the day," Wilson said.

"I don't see why you two planned all this cloak and dagger business. What gives?" House paused, catching his breath. "And why can't YOU just tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Because I promised Cameron . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," House said. "How many times have we gone around that particular roadblock? It still makes no sense."

"It will," Wilson reassured him. "Besides, Cameron can explain things much better than I can."

"Fine," House replied, sighing with obvious resignation. "I still think that you and probably Cameron too are both crazy. But since I don't have my sea legs yet . . ."

"Once you two talk, your rehab will go much smoother. I'd better get downstairs. Cuddy will be leaving soon."

Cuddy started to move away from the door when she heard House speak again.

"Is . . . she talking to you? Has she asked about me?"

Cuddy heard the change in House's voice. His tone dropped and he sounded slightly husky.

"She STILL hasn't come by to see you?" Wilson said.

There was a pregnant pause. "She's got contract negotiations," House's voice had a forced casualness to it. "She's always really busy this time of year."

"Are you defending her?"

"The question is why aren't you? Aren't you two bestest buddies?"

It had to have been Wilson who sighed this time. "We haven't really been . . . we've both been busy recently," he said.

"What's wrong with you Wilson?" House said, raising his voice. "Am I gonna have to check your office for giant pods?"

Even from where she stood, she could hear House take a deep breath before continuing in a much quieter tone, "You can't avoid Cuddy. She needs you."

Cuddy's heart contracted in pain. She had abandoned House. He knew it, felt it, grieved it. And yet here he was championing her by chastising his best friend on her behalf.

"But you need her too," Wilson said. "She could've spared a few minutes to see you."

"Unless . . . she still won't forgiven me," House said the pain in his voice clearly palpable.

Cuddy could hear no more. Tears slid down her cheeks as she tiptoed quickly over to the nurse's station, still holding her shoes. Once there she ducked behind the empty desk just in the nick of time. Wilson's familiar footfall exited House's room and retreated down the hallway toward the elevators.

Cuddy crouched there behind the desk, her brain desperately forming the beginnings of a plan. She heard the bell ring for the elevator and waited a few extra seconds before chancing a look above the desk.

"Dr. Cuddy? Did you lose something? Can I help you . . . Dr. Cuddy, are you alright?" nurse Sims said. She had come round the counter of the nurse's station and was standing only a few feet away.

"Sedatives?" Cuddy said.

"For Dr. House. But he's not due for . . ."

"I'll make the note on his chart. Hand me the propofol."

Sims complied, a quizzical expression crossing her features.

"Thank you," Cuddy said and she walked back toward House's room, still holding her shoes in one hand, the syringe in the other.

As she neared the doorway, she felt the familiar rush of emotions rise like bile into the back of her throat. She swallowed hard and strode forward.

Cuddy's heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach at the sight that met her eyes. House appeared to be asleep as he lay on his back in the bed. Even after two weeks at PPTH he still looked very pale and neither the dark circles under his eyes nor the bruises on his arms had faded away completely.

Most disturbing of all was that he'd obviously dropped a significant amount of weight. A few extra pounds had graced House's midsection only a few short weeks ago but now he was obviously underweight by at least 15 pounds. His handsome high cheekbones were even more pronounced and Cuddy thought she could discern some ribs beneath his hospital gown as his chest rose and fell in time with his steady breathing.

She and Wilson's avoidance of House had obviously taken its toll upon him, more than she'd ever wished to acknowledge.

Cuddy shook her head to focus her thoughts once more. She could not afford to get maudlin, not now. Not when there was so much to do.

She moved close to the bed and placed her shoes in the empty chair next to it. Taking the cap off the syringe, she gently tapped it to check for bubbles and the correct dosage.

"Cuddy?"

Cuddy whirled around at the sound of his voice. Yet without hesitation, she stabbed the needle into House's IV line and pushed the plunger all the way to the base. She avoided his eyes the whole time in order not to be derailed from finishing her task.

It took less than a second but Cuddy felt as if the entirety of the previous two weeks had passed in that moment. Once the fluid had been completely injected, it was only then she allowed herself to look at him. Her reaction to him was exactly what she had anticipated. She stood there, frozen in place, staring into the limitless blue of his eyes.

"What did you do that for? Cuddy?" House said as he began to blink more slowly as the drug flowed through his veins, performing its insidious work. "Why?"

Even with just that one word question, House could barely conceal the hurt in his voice.

Cuddy felt the tears start to her eyes again. "We'll talk later. You need to rest now." She put out her hand to stroke his forehead. "Don't worry, just get some sleep. Okay?"

House reached up and stayed her hand. He said nothing but the look he gave her was nothing short of the haunted expression of a man whose love had once more been betrayed.

"Why?" House mumbled before his eyes closed completely and, with a heavy sigh, he fell asleep.

She stood for a few minutes staring at his hand which still held her own in its now slackened grasp. The silver tears slid down her cheeks, dropping from her chin and splashing his knuckles as she gently removed her hand from his.

Cuddy walked to the end of the bed and removed House's chart, making note of the drug and dosage she'd just administered. Then moving around to the chair, she took up her shoes and dropped them unceremoniously to the floor, sliding her feet into them and rising several inches taller by the time she turned to exit the room.

Her heels clicked in their accustomed fashion as she quickly walked back to the nurse's station. The two nurses now sitting behind the desk hardly reacted as Cuddy picked up the desk phone and dialed the extension for the reception area in the main lobby. Brenda picked up on the second ring.

"Main lobby."

"Brenda? Lisa. Has Wilson asked for me yet?"

"Wilson? No, he hasn't . . . oh wait he's just getting off the elevator now."

"He must've stopped by his office first. Listen just humor me here, okay? I need him to think that I had to run home. Just let him know unobtrusively that Rachel threw up or something and that . . ."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that Dr. Cuddy. Yes. Yes. I'm sure it is just something she ate. Well then, I'll see you tomorrow. I hope Rachel's feeling better."

"Thanks Brenda," Cuddy said heaving a sigh of relief. "I owe you one."

"He just walked away," Brenda whispered into the phone. "He's calling someone on his cell phone. Is that what you wanted? Are you alright? You're calling from the nurse's station on Dr. House's floor. Is Dr. House . . . ?"

"I'll explain everything later."

"You'd better."

"I promise. And Brenda? Thanks again."

"Just take care of yourself and . . . please, take care of Dr. House as well."

Cuddy choked up. Brenda heard the change in her boss's voice as she said, "That's exactly what I plan to do," before the phone went dead.


	85. Chapter 85

**85 – "Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man that he didn't, didn't already have . . . So please, believe in me when I say I'm spinning round, round, round, round . . ." – "Tin Man" – America**

Cameron had been sitting in her car for over half an hour by the time Wilson's call came through on her cell phone. She'd purposely gotten to the hospital ahead of schedule in case an opportunity presented itself for her to see House earlier than originally anticipated. She was feeling tired and not a little hungry. She'd decided she would talk to House and then go straight home, giving herself occasion to eat and rest while allowing him the time to think things over.

She knew House would be upset initially. There was simply no getting round that. He would be angry with her for not telling him sooner about the baby. He might even resent the fact that she'd chosen to keep the baby without consulting him at all.

But she felt confident that after his preliminary shock and subsequent anger, House would settle into a more reasonable frame of mind. And Cameron held onto a fervent hope that knowing about the existence of a child, his child, might speed his recuperation, even motivate him to make more of the changes in his life that would benefit him and make him happier. He had already kicked his Vicodin habit. What changes could a newborn son inspire in him?

Of course Cameron held close to her heart her most ardent wish of all: that House would choose to come back to her and that with him they could raise their son together and be a family.

In truth, she had thought of little else since fate had landed House in her ER and placed him under her care. His reappearance in her life just couldn't be explained away as merely good luck or simply the result of a happy coincidence. She took House's dynamic re-entrance into her life as a sign, perhaps not from God but a sign nonetheless.

It was this way of thinking, Cameron realized, that most assuredly earned herself the label House himself had given her as "the most naive atheist" he'd ever known. But in all the areas of her life that she reflected this trait, she was perhaps nowhere as naïve anywhere else as in her romantic sensibilities.

And yet, she could not get past the fortuitous circumstances that brought House not only back into her life, but placed him under her care just when he needed her medical expertise and her love the most. Didn't the fact remain that she'd saved House's life? Hadn't she brought him back from the very brink of death?

Whether her over-management of his care had done him subsequent injury or not no longer mattered. All that concerned Cameron now was that she and House and their baby were reunited.

In the short interim since she'd last seen him, Cameron had evaluated her interactions with House both past and present and had come to the unalterable conclusion that he needed her. House would always need her. Allison Cameron knew she understood him as no one else could. Not the well-meaning but oftentimes inept friendship of Wilson. And certainly not the self-serving, overly-controlling Lisa Cuddy.

But just as much as House needed her, needed her tender embrace, impassioned kisses, needed her steadfast love, Cameron knew that House also needed to be needed as well. His brilliance would always be counterbalanced with his instability and she felt that only the foundation of a truly unconditional love would give him the freedom to soar without fearing the loss of lift that would cause him to come crashing down.

And much as he needed her and only the love she felt she alone could offer him, she realized too that she needed House just as much, if not more. His physical prowess as an incredible lover coupled with his overwhelming masculinity paled in comparison with the awe-inspiring connection she felt with him. Yes, House was akin to her drug of choice, a drug that she was irresistibly addicted to. But he was so much more than that.

Cameron loved him for his tremendous mind as well as his body. And Allison Cameron, the avowed atheist, loved the very soul of Gregory House.

She had seen him reveal it, time and again, throughout the years she had known him. No matter the deflections and denials on his part, Cameron had witnessed the sensitive soul of this complicated man reach out to others, to help, to heal, in the altruistic spirit of caring.

House had let her glimpse just briefly behind his curtain and she had seen the true wizard that lurked there. And she had irrevocably fallen in love with that wizard.

She knew now that everything between them before had been an intricate series of chess moves with House controlling the board for the most part in an effort to hide behind his walls and protect his fragile heart. All of her reactions, on the other hand, had been designed and metered out to gain his attention and capture his fancy, achieving a greater foothold as she scaled the walls he'd built to protect himself.

In hindsight, the brief time they were together when her child was conceived and during the subsequent months of her pregnancy had enabled her to see all this, had helped her understand who House really was and who he really needed in his life.

And once he found out about their baby, she knew that he would need the child just as much as he would need her.

Cameron clung to the veracity that just because a belief appeared to be naïve, did not make it less true.

She was in love with House. He was in love with her in return. The life they'd created together would not be an anchor or a hindrance, but a beacon to lead them both back to the road they should be on, the right road they would walk together side by side until the end of time.

She barely acknowledged her ringing cell phone or Wilson's voice on the other end as she answered it. Wilson asked her to meet him at the back door nearest the morgue. This would allow Cameron to avoid being waylaid by anyone else she knew at PPTH.

She agreed to meet him and then closed her phone. Wilson was right. Cameron only wanted to see House and House alone. She floated almost as if in a dream toward the back door, barely able to contain her excitement at seeing House again.

Cameron passed through the door unobtrusively; anyone who might recognize her was either gone for the day or making last minute preparations to do so in their offices or in the lobby, not at the back of the building. Wilson suggested they take the service elevators and stepped onto the first car with her. The car was empty save for the two of them so they were at liberty to speak freely.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "You look a little pale. Are you alright?"

Cameron smiled up at him. "I will be," she said. "I'm just anxious to see House. How is he doing?"

Wilson shook his head, "Better prepare yourself. He's still a bit bruised. And he's lost a lotta weight. He's not snapping back as quickly as I thought he would."

"Or as quickly as he _should_?" Cameron shook her head slowly. "Don't forget that I saw him when he was first brought into Princeton General's ER. He'd just crashed his bike and been stabbed. He coded almost immediately. I don't think he can look any worse than that."

"I guess not," Wilson said quietly. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry you had to go through that alone."

Cameron looked up into the familiar, liquid brown eyes. Her heart was so full of love for House that it seemed to spill over with love for everyone, but particularly for House's loyal best friend.

She stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss against Wilson's warm cheek just as the elevator doors opened.

"That was my choice Wilson. And it was the wrong choice. I'm sorry that you and . . ." Cameron sighed. "I'm sorry that you and even Cuddy had to go through all that too. I'm not going to let that happen again."

"What do you mean?" Wilson said as they stepped off the elevator together. Wilson gently put out his hand to stop her forward motion as he gazed quizzically at her.

"Wilson, you may as well know. I've had a lot of time to think things over. So much time away from . . . him and so much time once I knew I was pregnant with his child. And a whole two weeks since we found each other again."

Her large, blue-green gaze sought his. "I love him Wilson, more than you or anyone else including House himself will probably ever know. And I know that he loves me."

"A lot has happened since you left," Wilson interrupted. "You don't know . . ."

"I know a lot more than you give me credit for. I know he's in love with Cuddy."

Wilson involuntarily gasped but before he could react further, Cameron continued.

"But Wilson, he fell in love with me too." She reached out and took his hand. "He did. I know it. He couldn't have faked that. Not House. And not with me. He fell in love with me just as I realized I never loved anyone else the way I love him. And now I know there'll never be anyone for me but him. He has to know that. He needs to know about his son and he has to know how I feel. Then he can make his decision."

Wilson jerked his hand away. "What? You mean you're going to drop all this on him and then let HIM decide? How do you know he'll choose you? How do you even know . . . ?"

"I don't know," Cameron said cutting across him. "I'm not sure what he'll decide. But I love him enough to give him that choice. Whether he chooses me or not is entirely up to him but he needs to know. I love him and I plan on raising his son whether he wants to be a part of that or not. House is a free spirit. He must be free to be who he really is. I accept that about him just as I accept all that he is, the good and the not-so-good. That's what love is Wilson. Acceptance. Of course I hope he'll choose me, a life with me and our son but I can't control Gregory House. That would be like trying to control the weather or the tides in the ocean. And if I tried to control him, we'd both just end up miserable. So I've come to tell him about his son and that I love him and that we'll wait for him. He needs time. Time to heal and time to think. I love him enough to give him so small a gift as time Wilson."

Tears had started to Wilson's eyes as Cameron finished speaking. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said after a moment's silence. "And I hope you don't get your heart broken."

Cameron smiled wistfully. "I thought you were always worried about HIS heart around me. Isn't that what you said the day before we went out on that first date?"

Wilson nodded. "I AM worried about his heart. I know he loves . . ."

"He's in love with Cuddy. I know that Wilson."

Wilson took another silent intake of breath, both in surprise at Cameron's matter-of-fact statement and for the strength to carry him through the rest of what he needed to say.

"If you know he loves her but you feel he loves you too then how will telling him all this do anything but break his heart in two?"

"House is a truth seeker Wilson. You know that. We just have to trust that he's strong enough to handle the truth when it's given to him, that he can cope with the real truth about himself and his own heart. I do love him Wilson, I really do. So that means that I'm just going to have to trust him too."

"Even at the risk of losing him? Your son growing up never knowing his father?"

Cameron's eyes had become large with emotion as they stood in the shadowed hallway. But even in the gloom, Wilson could still see the silver tears pooling and then sliding down her rounded cheeks.

"Even then Wilson," she answered. "Just like House cannot go on half-truths, neither can I. I'd rather know for sure how he feels and what he wants than never know at all. And if he doesn't choose me, choose us," she placed a protective hand over her rounded belly as she continued, "then I'll make sure our son knows why so that he can respect him for it. Just as I will."

"I'm not sure if you or House knows what you're doing," Wilson said as he rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. "I'm not sure that either of you were even meant for this world. It seems like your brains will never be in synch with your hearts and so the both of you are doomed to misery forever."

"Just as you're doomed to always worry over the people you care about?"

He nodded again, struck dumb by the emotions fighting in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. When he finally found his voice, he said, "And now you're both . . . breaking my heart."

"Try and stop worrying." Cameron paused, gently placing her hand under Wilson's chin as she lifted his gaze to hers once more. "Now c'mon Tin Man. Kiss me again to wish me good luck."

Wilson lowered his head and closing his eyes, placed a tender kiss upon Cameron's cheek. She tasted like salt from the steady tears trailing down her face.

"He's in the third room on the left," Wilson said, "The one with the blinds drawn. I'll wait for you downstairs in my office so you two can talk in private. Make sure you stop by on your way out. I want . . . I want to see you again before you leave. I want . . . just take it easy on him and take care of yourself."

Wilson sighed heavily before he continued. "I was with him about 20 minutes ago and I told him you were coming. He's waiting for you."

Then without another word, he turned and pressed the elevator button. The doors opened almost immediately and Wilson entered, turning just as the doors were closing.

"Good luck . . . Dorothy," he said just as the doors slid shut.

Cameron nodded, even though she was now almost entirely alone in the hallway. Visiting hours on this floor were restricted and the nurses were obviously making their rounds.

Squaring her shoulders, Cameron turned back toward House's room and began making her way stoically toward the open door. At the doorway she gulped a huge breath of air and then walked forward.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness for the only light in the room was a single light over House's bed. Cameron looked at the beloved face whose eyes appeared to be closed. There was no sound at all except the occasional beep of the monitors and House's own deep breathing.

She thought she had properly prepared herself but even still, a sharp pang shot through her chest as she gazed upon the recumbent form of House. Her mind flashed back to that morning in the seaside inn. How long had she watched him sleep? How long had she loitered before steeling herself to do what she'd always wanted? And how surprised she was to find that House had wanted her just as much as she him?

"House? Are you awake? It's me, Cameron. We need to talk so you can stop pretending to be asleep."

"Oh he's not pretending."

The familiar voice came from behind her making Cameron whirl about in surprise and trepidation. She suddenly felt exactly like who Wilson had called her. She was Dorothy and she now knew she wasn't in Kansas anymore. Cameron watched helplessly as Lisa Cuddy stepped from the shadows and authoritatively closed the door.

The tornado had come.


	86. Chapter 86

_A/N: Finally. An update to this story including THE cat fight. Or not. I'll let you decide. And yes, in answer to your question, I am evil._

**86 – ". . . what would I do if he came back and wanted you? Just runnin' scared, feelin' low. Runnin' scared, you love him so. Just runnin' scared, afraid to lose. If he came back, which one would 'he' choose?" – "Running Scared" – Roy Orbison**

As Cameron turned, Cuddy got her first good look at her former employee. Sudden realization upon seeing Cameron's rounded frame shot through Cuddy like lighting through steel, leaving in its wake a not unfamiliar ache in her heart and a hollow feeling in her womb.

There before her stood Allison Cameron. Cameron who at this point in time embodied nearly everything Cuddy herself had ever desired. Cameron was successful, prettier, younger and, most devastating of all, pregnant with House's child.

Hard core rage born of a fierce jealousy bubbled up inside her. Cuddy felt utterly powerless in the grips of her need to violently lash out like a wounded animal.

But the one thought that was able to fight through her disappointment and pain, the one idea that she clutched to her rational mind above the clamor of her own shrieking inner villain who was ceaselessly crying out for revenge was the knowledge that a wholly irrational response would get her nowhere. Cuddy may have been a wounded animal but she was not an unthinking wounded animal.

On the contrary, she was an intelligent woman who knew what she wanted. Or rather, who she wanted.

But oh how she wanted to strike Cameron down. How she wanted to humiliate and crush this unworthy, conniving usurper of House's love. How she wanted to use the younger woman as an example and throw her into the face of a world that had so cruelly denied her the one thing she wanted above all else. How in that moment she wanted to be the means of Cameron's utter destruction and leave her wrecked and barren on some distant shore far from PPTH, far from House.

For Cameron's presence at House's bedside could only mean one thing; she had returned to claim him.

Standing there, flaunting the life inside her, the life that Cuddy had failed to create and that Cameron had seemingly so easily conceived, the life that must of necessity permanently bind her to the man Cuddy loved, filled Lisa with a deep sense of foreboding even as it illuminated the lengths she herself would go to in order to keep House a part of her life.

In that moment in time, Cuddy made her decision. She was not about to let Allison Cameron, pregnant or not, stand in her way now, now that she knew she was in love with House.

She took a wider stance and squared her narrow shoulders, readying herself for a fight. Though emotional, Cuddy was still coherent. She could still make rational choices.

And her choice now was to fight whatever or whoever stood between her and the man she loved, between herself and House. In the immediacy and tension of the moment, Cuddy chose to fight tooth and nail for him, whatever it would take.

That sense of purpose calmed her. It was the quiet before the storm that allowed Cuddy to set herself up in her most lethal persona yet. Lisa Cuddy, woman in love became Lisa Cuddy, high-riding bitch.

"I think before you and House talk, you and I should have a little chat first. Don't you agree?" Cuddy said quietly after taking a steadying breath.

Cameron narrowed her eyes at Cuddy. She felt the strange dichotomy between the quiet of the Dean of Medicine's voice and the thunder of her words. Cameron also noticed Cuddy was standing in front of the door, blocking any chance for escape. Yet escape was the furthest thing from Cameron's mind.

"What did you do to him? Drug him?" she spat.

"This is MY hospital and Gregory House is MY patient. I will do whatever I see fit to protect him."

Cameron chuckled bitterly. "That's rich. You only drugged him so that you could protect yourself and your own . . . interests." She stepped back against House's bed and placed a tentative hand upon his outstretched arm.

Cuddy inhaled deeply, lifting her chin and pushing her shoulders even further back as she did so. "Fine. You want to play it that way? I won't deny it. Yes, I DO have an interest in House. Also in what's BEST for him."

"What's best for House? Or what's best for you alone?"

"Maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive," Cuddy said smiling tightly.

"And you don't think him knowing about his son is best? In what universe is that true?"

"In the universe that is House. In the universe that he's hardly father material."

"So what exactly were you planning to do with your daughter after you two got together?" Cameron countered. "Send her to boarding school until she turns 18?"

"That's none of your business."

"Just as it's none of yours how and when I tell House he has a son."

Cuddy waivered a moment. A son. Cameron was pregnant with House's son. The son she herself had longed to give him. The child she had wanted to give birth to. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus and dive back into the argument.

"And how do we even know it IS House's child? Maybe this is just another of your immature manipulations. Another of your childish fan-girl fawnings over a man who's always been far superior to you in every respect. In intellect, in renown, in . . ."

"Is that what you think?" Cameron let loose a trilling laugh. "How stupid do you think I am? Or he is?"

"How stupid do you think I am to believe that you wouldn't try to entrap House by making him think you're carrying his son when in reality you're really carrying another man's child?"

"Even if I did stoop that low, you don't honestly think that I wouldn't be able to provide House with a DNA test? Him, not you. I don't have to prove anything to you."

Cuddy folded her arms over her chest. "Tests can be faked. And yeah, if you stooped low enough to seduce him months ago when he was vulnerable then there's no end to how low you'd go to try and lure him back to your bed."

Cameron's face lit up with an almost triumphant smile. "So you admit that we made love?"

Cuddy's eyes widened in shock at her own slip before she narrowed them again in determination. "You're still just a little girl with a stupid crush on a man who means nothing more to you than some replacement father figure. Why don't you grow up? Make love? Don't make me laugh. If anything happened, then _you_ f**ked _him_. And now you're trying to screw him over again. Just like you did two weeks ago at Princeton General when your selfish crush nearly killed him."

Cameron took a step back, reeling slightly. "When _I_ nearly killed him? I saved his life! And it wasn't MY boyfriend who crashed into House's motorcycle and then stabbed him to try and finish the job!"

Cuddy's eyes lessened to mere slits. "How much did Wilson tell you?" she said between gritted teeth.

Cameron laughed again, one short, sharp bark. "You really ARE paranoid aren't you? Wilson didn't tell me anything. He didn't have to. I got all the information I need from other sources."

"Oh that's right. You probably got that from your new best friend Detective Tritter. Whose hatred of House would NEVER make him lie about anything concerning House. Whose stories I'd trust just about as far as I could throw him which is just about as far as I'd trust anything you have to say too. You'll stop at nothing to get what you want. You don't care who you hurt. You led Chase around like a lost little puppy, even tricked him into marrying you and for what? Just to make House jealous? That blew up in your face didn't it? Poor Chase. And now you're trying to do the same thing with Wilson and get him on your side. Worst of all, you're using your own unborn baby as a pawn in your egocentric games. When's it ever going to be enough? When House is shackled to you out of some unrealistic sense of paternal obligation? That's rich! You're barking up the wrong tree with that angle where House is concerned."

"Am I? Then why are you so scared Lisa?" Cameron paused and took a step closer. As she did so, her face darkened.

"Or is this all just a smokescreen? Because if you really thought that, you wouldn't have felt the need to drug him would you?"

Cuddy flinched.

Cameron's heart beat faster and her breath came in shorter gasps as she saw an opening in her opponent's formidable defenses. "And even if you DO believe all that, then the sad truth is that you know nothing at all about House. You're in complete ignorance of who House really is as a man, as a human being just as you've always been. You're just narcissistically projecting onto him what you would do, what you think should happen. You're the one being egocentric and petty. Because you're afraid that once House finds out the truth, you could lose him forever."

Cuddy felt a chill go to the marrow of her bones. "I won't lose him. It's not true!"

"It is. And just because you can't have exactly what you want the way you want it, you don't want anyone else to have it either. You know you can never give him a child. I can. I will. And that's what's eating you alive, isn't it?"

Cameron boldly took another step closer. She began speaking lower and more softly as her anger was replaced by pity, pity for the woman who now felt what Cameron had for so many years; that she would never have the man she loved. "You already chose Lucas over House, to adopt a child instead of have one with him. And now, when I can have it all, when I can make House truly happy and give him a son, now you step up to deny him that?"

"You have no guarantee that House will choose you, baby or no baby."

"No. There's no guarantees. The only difference between you and I is that I'm willing to GIVE House a choice."

Cuddy inhaled deeply and held the breath before letting it out and saying very quickly, "You mean to tell me that you intend to tell House that you're carrying his child and then let HIM decide whether he'll come back to you?"

Cameron felt her throat tighten. Unable to speak, she simply nodded her head.

Cuddy stood there stunned and blinking before she was able to sputter, "And you're willing to live with his decision? Even though he's already rejected you a thousand times before, even after he dumped you right after you say you slept with him?"

Cameron still silent, nodded once more.

Cuddy's eyes widened. There seemed to flit there in the blue-green depths all the fear and pain of losing House. But now there was also a new emotion. She looked at Cameron with respect. The hateful beast within her was mollified as she saw in Cameron the same fears and flaws that lived within her own breast, saw in her who she once was so long ago in Michigan: a woman who had fallen desperately in love with a man who'd never called her, never written after one night of giving him her all.

In many ways, there were so many parallels. They were the same she and Cameron, united in their imperfect love for a very imperfect man.

"All right," Cuddy said quietly. "I don't know . . . I don't see how . . . if you prove the child you're carrying really is House's. Wilson as an impartial judge can order the DNA tests. If it turns out you're carrying House's . . ." Cuddy felt her own throat constrict with emotion. ". . . baby. And you're STILL willing to let House make his own decision, then . . . then there's nothing I can do about that. I won't be the one to stand in his way. I won't keep anyone from their own child."

Cameron stood there dumbfounded.

"BUT, you listen to me. If it turns out your baby is NOT his. Or if House DOESN'T choose you, you have to promise that you'll stop all this . . . all these games. All this energy spent on something and someone you'll never have. You have to promise to give him up. Forever."

The tears came quickly to Cameron's eyes once more as she nodded her agreement for the last time.

Cuddy felt her own eyes welling up as she looked again at the younger woman and all that she was in that moment. For in that moment, she was all that Cuddy had found she ever wanted to be.

"If your baby is House's," Cuddy said, her voice breaking, "And he still doesn't choose you, then you also have to promise to let him see his son, let him be a part of his life. That's not only in your baby's best interests, but House's as well. Do you promise to do that too?"

"The baby IS House's. And House WILL choose us," Cameron said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"But if he doesn't?"

"I promise."

Cuddy nodded. "Okay. House should be asleep for another couple of hours. Do you want to wait here or do you want to . . ."

Cameron coughed. "I'll wait here. I have to get this over with. House deserves to know the truth, for his sake, for all our sakes."

Cuddy nodded again. "Do you want to rest awhile? You can use the couch in my office."

"I'd rather go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat."

"I'll have Wilson call you as soon as House wakes up."

"'kay," Cameron whispered as she turned to leave.

Cuddy wanted to say something but the words just wouldn't come. Instead, she simply watched as the younger image of her own life, what could have been if things had gone differently in Michigan slid the door closed behind her and walked away, taking every last vestige of hope that Cuddy possessed with her.

Cameron's head was spinning as she stepped onto the elevator. Her hopes of talking with House, hearing his voice as sacred as a prayer had been completely destroyed by Cuddy's shrill attack upon her. And yet, Cuddy had in the end, agreed to let House decide, to trust House.

The elevator arrived at her floor and she walked out. It was impossible. The only thing that could make Cuddy relinquish control was only . . . Cameron felt sick to her stomach. They were all, all so deeply committed and all in danger of being washed away by the fears and doubts of their own selfish needs.

Her mouth was unbearably dry by the time she reached the cafeteria so the first thing she did was take a bottled water from the cooler near the cashier. She cracked it open and took a swig before paying for it. Yet the cooling liquid did nothing to quench her thirst.

"Cameron?"

Oh no. The last voice she wanted to hear and yet at the same time, the one she needed to hear. The familiar lilt of an Aussie accent still reverberated in her ears as she slowly turned to see Chase, a look of utter surprise on his face, hurrying toward her.

The surprise was replaced by a smile as bright as the noonday sun that crossed her ex-husband's handsome features and made her smile in reply. Chase. With all the questions and tumult that surrounded her, his love for her had never wavered, had never been in doubt.

Her heart felt lighter as she looked into his eyes and saw the love that still existed there wrap her in its warm embrace like an old familiar blanket. His bright smile and look of affection were the last things she saw as a white hot shock of pain flashed through her head.

There was nothing she could do. She closed her eyes in response to the pain as she heard the sounds of Chase's accented voice yelling for help and the soft thud of her own body crumpling heavily to the floor.


End file.
